The Storyteller's Tales
by AnonymousIncognito
Summary: 'When people told themselves their past with stories, explained their present with stories, foretold the future with stories, the best place by the fire was kept for... The Storyteller…' WilyKat takes up the role of Storyteller to weave a series of bedtime stories and fairytales for his fellow Thundercats...and two very special cubs.
1. Azan the GrovelPig

DISCLAIMER: This is an adaptation of an adaptation of a story penned by the Brothers Grimm. Jim Henson, and the Brothers Grimm get all the royalties and credit for the story and RankinBass/WB get the credit for the ThunderCats. I own nothing.

This story will be presented from the POV of a Storyteller delighting children.

* * *

"Please Uncle WilyKat," begged the twin cubs as they settled into their beds for the night, "You always tell the bestest stories."

The teenaged Cat couldn't help the smile that etched its way onto his face at the compliment. So far, Kat prepared the bestest snacks, played the bestest games, and told the bestest stories. Ah how he was going to love dangling this over their parents when they returned from the Autumn Ball.

"All right you two troublemakers," Kat grinned as he finished tucking the twins into bed before he moved into a chair closer to the fireplace and retrieved the Storybook he carried in his Forever Bag.

"I think I've got a story to tell."

* * *

Azan the GrovelPig

.

.

.

Imagine a warm night, a cold night - a night like this one or any other for that matter in a Kingdom much like this one… or any other for that matter as well.

Outside the Kingdoms castle, the wind sings its songs of battles fought and days yet to come. Inside the Kingdoms castle, King and Queen sleep all snuggley-wuggled up together in warmth and love. But, when the King attempts to snoggle his wife, he finds his lips firmly planted upon a foot that was where her head should be and the murmured sighing from her velvet lips is at his toes and not his ear.

"Ho my Queen," he calls. "Ho!" but she's not budging.

She's there for a reason.

"Just this once," she tells him. "It's worked for others, it might work for us."

"Knucklehead!" mutters her husband. "Don't be silly. You'll not get a child like this. We must have faith that a blessing shall come to us in proper time. If you would like, I can arrange to have one of the servants or one of your Ladies to sit with you for company until that blessing does occur. Now come up this end. I'm properly frozen and a cold King is a grumpy King."

But the Queen didn't want a member of the court or even a villager for conversation or company; she wanted a babe - a little thing of honey and softness, to wrap up in a bundle and sing to and cuddle with and hug to bits. She'd wanted this child for what seemed a lifetime until she couldn't bear to watch the lambing of the calves come or the eggs hatch, it hurt her so.

The Queen sought scrolls and texts of remedies. She dressed in layers during the long, hot summer evenings and shivered nearly nude during the long, cold winter nights. She even slept upside down from the ceiling while her husband lay underneath her but still, still, and still again, no baby ever came. She went to gypsies at fairs, paid a fortune in charms and trinkets listened to the most outlandishly hog washed hogwash a person could hear:

"They say if you chant for three days in a smoke pit while wearing a grass skirt..."

"They say if you bathe first in mud and then in the saliva of a roathe, and then drink the milk of a stench cow..."

"They say if you kiss a bat, swallow a frog that has eaten a thrush's pebble then sleep in a pool of honey..."

"They say the embrace of a goat, the dung of a Balgus Troll, the powdered tassel of a bull sprite, and dew from a spider's tooth..."

"Any one of these will get you a son." she was promised.

And not a one ever did.

* * *

More and more, the King could not bear to listen to his Queen go on about a child. No man wanted a son more than him. He knew his bones were stiffening and that he couldn't move as quickly or gracefully as he once could. Each day he would sit upon his throne and decree and negotiate and do all the things a truly great King should do but all the while he hoped for a little cub to lift upon his shoulders, to sit in his lap upon the throne and pluck the crown from off his brow, pretending to be King, ordering his father to play with him all day long. A cub to watch grow strong and wise and one day, to pass along the mantle of King to.

Oh yes, he yearned. But he would never speak of it to anybody. A King such as he could not show weakness of any sort.

However, nothing above, upon, or below Third Earth would deter his wife the Queen.

One night, she brought him a glass of brackish liquid. A bit of a tonic, she told him, to be drunk at night and in the morning. As much as the King loved his wife, he could not help it as his face darkened and wretched in frustration.

"ENOUGH!" he roared, the sheer volume of his voice quaking the walls of their bedchamber. "I have had enough. No more scrolls. No more gypsies. No more trinkets or tonics. If we are to have heirs, we will have them. If not, what else can we do?"

* * *

But as we already learned, the Queen was nothing if not determined. "I want a babe. I wouldn't care if it were a strange thing made of caramel, marzipan, marshmallow, or pudding. I wouldn't care if it were as ugly as a hedgehog. I want a cub to wrap in a bundle and sing to and cuddle with and hug to bits."

Now, to say you wouldn't care when you want something is a dangerous thing. That Queen wanted a cub with such a want that she wouldn't have cared at all what she got. It was such a want that if she did get a hedgehog, she'd bring its snout to her breast and let it suckle till it couldn't suckle any more.

No sooner said than done, the room went chill with the mischief of dark magic and the Queen got her wish. In hardly no time at all, she has her boy-cub - a little ball as ugly as sin with a pointed snout and sprouting quills as soft as feathers everywhere above its waist.

No more curious a sight could be imagined than the Queen taking this hedgehog baby – this bundle of sweetness and tickles, this perfect smile in a sea of silky quills that had the eyes of the brightest blue.

And no mother ever loved her babe more than the Queen. She would wrap him in soft, warm shawls and sing him old lullabies. She snuggled him and cuddled him and hugged him to bits. And she gave her little darling a darling name. Azan, she called him. Azan who is my hedgehog.

As much as the Queen loved her Azan, the same could not be said for the King for he could not bear to look at his son. The King didn't see what his wife saw. He didn't see the eyes like the sky on a cloudless day, he only saw his people laughing at him. He didn't feel the softness of his son's quill's he only felt the peoples pitying stars upon his back. He didn't hear the lullabies, only the gibes, the speculations, and the tittle-tattle of small minds with much to gossip about. He wouldn't leave the castle nor would not leave the royal grounds with Azan. The King would not be seen in any way with his child. The shame of what had befallen him turned his heart into a twisted knot of rage and shame and slowly, the King came to hate his son, the hedgehog cub.

As time always goes by, day followed day, week chased week, and the half-hedgehog grew up. His coat filled in thicker and thicker and his eyes grew bluer and bluer and his snout pointier and pointier. To his mother, he was the sweetest and most doting of sons; a true jewel at her throat and wrist. And if he could have, Azan would never have left his mothers side for elsewhere, the insults and curses curled him up into a ball. The spite he was shown turned his coat into spines, the insults teased his quills into sharp protective needles. If he came into a room, his father the King would leave it. If he crept up to touch his fathers hand, it would be slapped away.

This was the life of Azan - a world of light and dark, a world of his father's brooding, his mother's love, and the taunts of those who would creep up to the stables and taunt him with their 'anything-strange-is-ugly taunts.

"Hey, beastie!" they would yell, smug as bugs. "Hey, hairy! Hey, critterchops! Hey, prickleback!"

And Azan would curl up into a ball and shiver and cry and wonder why he was so different.

Then they found a name that stuck, a name they painted on walls, shouted when he could hear - a name to haunt him. "GrovelPig!" they called him. "GrovelPig!"

And in those hateful taunts and cruel words, Azan learned he was strange and he learned he was ugly and he learned to be sad and he learned the name that was given him. GrovelPig.

He retreated to the stables, to the animals that understood him. For every quill on his body, Azan had a different animal for a friend and Azan had a lot of quills. He had a special way with these creatures and they loved him. He could talk to them and understand them when they talked back. If his mother ever needed to find him, the first place to look would always be the stables for usually, her son could be found there with his cock-rooster.

Azan tended to this bird since hatching it from an egg. He would spend hours combing the roosters comb, polishing his beak to a mirror shine, and feeding and fattening and strengthening him. It wasn't long before the rooster was the biggest rooster you could imagine, a huge, hugeness of a rooster, a vast, vastness of red all plump and flush-feathered. Whenever the sadness struck Azan, whenever he caught his reflection in a pool, saw his strange boy-beast face, he would run to these friends to be amongst them, for they found him neither odd nor strange but magnificent.

His father would come home from the court and see the boy sitting amongst the animals, pigs nudging his cheeks, the cows caressing him, the dogs licking his hands, and the King would be disgusted. The worst times came during sup. Azan might have spoken like a boy, but he ate like an animal, snout dipping into the plate, lap-lap-lapping, slurp-slurp-slurping, champ-chomp-chomping until one day his father snatched the plate from his lips and took the youth by his ear, dragging him out the door to the feed troughs by the stables.

"No longer!" he cried. "Get out! Get out! From now on you'll live and eat outside with the other beasts!" And with that he returned to the kitchen and slammed the door shut on his only son.

Darkness fell and the castle was quite silent. Azan had not returned, had probably not moved from where his father had cast him to the ground. Inside, in one chair sat the Queen, her face caught by the firelight, the tears glistening. In another was the King, thick brows furrowed, face set. Nothing was said to his dear wife, but, every so often, he would let out a sigh with his head bowed to the floor. At length, he stood up, took a coat and fetched a torch before walking out into the thick black owl-hoot night.

"Azan!" he called as he walked the grounds but his son would not answer. "Azan" the King cried again and again but still, his son would not answer.

For hours, the King wandered about the dark, a great needle in his heart. One moment there was a great and furious rage welling up in him, the next tears, huge tears splashed his boots as he tramped and tramped and called and called.

Under the black velvet of the sky Azan laid all night in the wet, sticky grass amongst his animal friends, thinking and thinking until he'd thought a hole in the ground. He did not answer his father's cries, did not return to his mother's tear. He just laid there silently thinking and counting the stars.

Come mornings light, the King - wretched, and weary and woeful - returned and was utterly shocked to find his son, the GovelPig, who had never once spoken ill or complained or had ever been anything other than the best son a man could wish for, sleeping upon the steps. And the King wanted nothing more than to pick up his boy in his arms and hug him and cuddle him and love him to bits.

But he couldn't. He looked down at the pointy snout and short arms and quills for hair and he just couldn't.

"I've trudged all night for you," the King growled, kicking the sleeping child awake. "And now you'll not eat for a week off my food."

Azan stood up in an instant, quills rippling and bristling up and down his back. "Father," he said in his flute voice, "I want you to do some things for me."

The King was outraged. "You what?" he barked.

"I want you to go to the village saddle-man and have a saddle made for my cock-rooster. When this is done, allow me some sheep and some cattle and some pigs. Do this for me and I shall ride away never again to return."

"Oh, will you now?" was the King's furious retort.

Azan simply nodded, undeterred. "I know which ones I'd like and they would be happy to come with me."

"Come with you where?" demanded his father.

"To where I go," replied Azan. "Which is away. Which is to somewhere. Where I can hurt no one and no one can hurt me."

Sorrow and anger fought within the King hearing his son's words. "You can't go. What of your mother who loves you and dotes on you?"

Azan did not reply but rubbed the tears from his blue, blue eyes. Finally, he looked up and curled his mouth into a brave smile.

"Father, all night I have laid outside trying to understand why you can't love me. I've thought and thought until I've thought a hole in the ground. But now it's all right. When I have the saddle, I'll go. I shall fashion a flute from the love and memories of my mother and compose a song for her that is bitter and sweet all at once and begins like hello and ends like goodbye. Fear not father, nevermore will you have to bear the shame of having a GrovelPig as your son."

The King was ashamed but not towards his son. He went to the saddle-man and commissioned the finest saddle for the rooster and he herded up the animals his son had asked for and he told his wife to pack a lunch, and all the while the GrovelPig sat on the stoop and waited until all was ready. Then he went to his mother and she hugged him and cuddled him and loved him to bits, then to his father, who wanted so much to do the same but couldn't, and said goodbye and, before the King could stop him, hugged him with all his might, and his father knew for the first time how soft and made of sweetness and honey his son truly was.

Then Azan the GrovelPig was away, flinging himself upon the saddle and riding off; the strangest steed, the strangest rider, the strangest army of hens and sheep and pigs and cattle. His parents watched him until he was nothing more than the faintest smudge off in the distance, the King stroking the quill Azan had shed during the goodbying, while the Queen felt a crack faulting her heart, like a tiny pencil line.

And with each hour Azan was away, the line grew thicker and thicker until one day, not long after, her heart split in half and she died.

* * *

Twenty years later, a great battle between two Kingdoms was fought in the lands and Jaga, the King who had triumphed found himself separated from his troops and quite lost in the great forest of Midnight Woods while returning home. Midnight Woods was the kind of forest where the trees point down and the rocks point up, the paths all lead back to each other, and all you can be certain of is that you aren't certain of anything.

And once the old grey beard was lost he got more lost and more lost, until he was well on his way to losing his mind.

Oh yes, he was well on his way out of his mind when he heard a sound that was a bitter sound and a sweet sound all at once; a music that began like hello and ended like goodbye. So, with little choice in the matter, the King followed that sound through glade and thicket and brush until he came at length to a clearing where animals roamed - sheep, cows, pigs, and hens. Huge, these creatures were, and content, looking like what animals on holiday must look like.

And behind them was a palace - a most extraordinary sight of the imagination, a fabulous dance of glass, jewels, metals, stone, waterfalls, and wishes.

After regaining his senses Jaga approached the great doors and knocked. The tall creature who greeted him was neither Cat nor beast, but somewhere in between. He had the build of a warrior, the eyes of a Prince, but his nose was stretched into a snout, and sweeping back from is eyebrows to his calves bristled a battalion of gleaming quills. He looked nothing less to the astonished King than half a Cat and half a hedgehog, which was precisely what he was.

Jaga sucked in his breath and introduced himself, recounting his plight and his pedigree, of his missing army and empty belly. The creature said nothing through all this, and Jaga, story told, looked nervously at the sharp spikes and waited...waited through a long threatening silence.

Finally, in a voice of dark woodwind, the creature spoke. "You are welcome, sir, in my home," he said with a bow before leading Jaga into a magnificent hall, where huge fires leapt and crackled. There, already laid for two, was a table straining to support the food spread across its top.

Straightaway they sat down and ate of the meatiest of meats, the greenest of greens, the sweetest of sweets and the juiciest of juices. And after all was eaten, with the embers glowing in the fires and the sun drawing in, Azan the hedgehog, for so it was, took up an ornate flute of his own make and began to play.

And what songs these were - haunting and sinuous, threading through the evening air. Laments that were bitter and sweet all at once, that began in hello and ended in goodbye. And before he could think 'I'm full now and found,' the King fell asleep.

How long Jaga slept, he did now know. Dreams in many colors that broke over him like waves, hugging his sleep, washing away his worries came and went. When he awoke, Jaga felt like a new Cat, ready for anything - or so he thought - but my dears, what a sight greeted his eyes. For his pillow had become the roots of a tree, his bed a mossy bank, and the view was not the creature's Great Hall, which was surely where he had fallen into slumber.

No, ahead of him sparkling in the sun's early light was his own palace! He knew not how he had come here, all he knew was joy. And he began to dance as only Kings once lost and then found can dance.

A King's jig. A jiggle-joggle with a jangle and then a leap. Then a flute took up his rhythm in a merry reel and, looking round, the King saw the hero of his honor, Azan the hedgehog, astride his giant cock-rooster.

"Anything!" cried the grey bearded King. "Anything you wish for is yours, for you have saved and salvaged me, you have led me full and fed from the labyrinth of trees that point up and rocks that point down."

But Azan would have no reward. He was ready to ride off.

"I insist," insisted Jaga insistantly. "Name anything, my dearest friend."

It was then a curious smile came to the creature's face, and his bluest of blue eyes twinkled. "Very well," he said. "Then I ask for the first thing to greet you when you arrive in the palace, whatever that may be."

The King thought on this request, imagining his first steps on reaching home. Jaga knew his first sight would be of faithful, worried-himself-sick-eared Snarf, the Royal mascot. No meaningless gift, for this was a wonderful creature, long the King's friend and companion. Nonetheless, Jaga agreed. His Snarf would have a merry life in the freedom of the forest, in a place where Azan was King.

"It is yours," he told Azan. "The first thing to greet me."

At this, Azan bowed in gratitude. "In one year and one day, I shall return to collect my reward." he said, and without more ado turned the rooster about and set off, a strut and a gallop into the distance.

Jaga watched him, hand held up in grateful salute, then turned himself and hurried home, the delight of return engulfing him.

Sure enough, as soon as Jaga set foot upon the drawbridge, trumpets sounded with much fanfare and the heavy doors of his palace swung wide open. There before Jaga, racing to embrace her long-lost father was his daughter the Princess Raineyii – who was most fleet of foot. Jaga took her up in arms, their tears mixing together as he swung her round and round and round.

Snarf - who had been napping a pleasant nap prior to the trumpet blasts - came next; the diminutive creature prancing circles around the two.

Bells and villagers sang out the King's return. "Wonderful!" they tolled. "Hurrah! Harrah!"

Then, through his chorus of welcomes and well wishes, Jaga caught another sound on the breeze, a sound both bitter and sweet, beginning in hello and ending in goodbye. And looking up, still clutching his dear child, he scanned the horizon.

There on the very edge of the hills, he caught the silhouette of his rescuer, flute raised to snout.

A chill panic gripped Jaga and with a chocked sob of despair, he dropped his startled daughter. It seemed to the old King as if a black cloud had fallen on him for, in his excitement, in his delight, he had forgotten about his promise and now the weight of it crushed him.

"Not my Snarf," his heart wept bleakly. "Not my Snarf, but my daughter. My daughter..."

* * *

Much can happen in a year's time.

Jaga settled into the dance of days. The snow, when it came, covered everything. The sun, when it shown, stunned his being. The trees dried from green to russet and shed their summer dresses as Jaga the King lay awake through the nights, unable to sleep, listening as the seasons came and went, grazing the stone walls of the palace with their unyielding fingers. In the day times, fear took hold and the King could be seen fretting along the battlements, his eyes squeezed to the distance, waiting, counting the days.

And all the while suitors from far and wide pilgrimaged to his Kingdom, seeking Raineyii's hand for all who saw the female were beguiled. She was a Princess of Sweetness and Cherry Pie.

Jaga's nightmare, of her delicate skin pierced and bleeding from the creature's terrible coat of quills, haunted him and twisted his heart into knots until he prayed that he had never been found; until he longed to be lost again in the forest. Jaga had spoken to no one of his rash promise. To no one, not even his daughter.

Oh yes, much can happen in a year.

Sometimes the minutes drift, marooned in time, and a single afternoon can seem a lifetime. But when one dreads the future, days can make one dizzy with their mad and frantic dash.

So it was with the King. It was upon him - that fatal day - before he'd even caught his breath. A year had whizzed like a firework fizzing into the air. The evening had found him slumped glumly on his throne. And when the bells dully thumped out the hour at six, he was still there, gray and dejected. At the last chime he heard another sound, a sound both bitter and sweet, beginning in hello and ending in goodbye. Jaga stood as quickly as his old bones would take him and moved stiffly to the balcony to observe the arrival of the strange creature; half-man, half-hedgehog, riding on a giant rooster and leading an army of animals. Jaga sighed and walked slowly down to the drawbridge to greet them.

"Do you remember me?" asked Azan the hedgehog, his voice now half-flute, half-bass.

Jaga nodded.

"A year and a day have passed since we last met," continued the creature, his coat of quills alert and dangerous. "Will you keep your promise to me?"

The King's face set in a grim mask. "I will," he said. "I will."

_Should I tell you of the Princess's tears, of their torrents, her of sighs and sorrows? Should I tell you of the pain, of how it hurt Jaga to say what had been unsaid, to explain what was unexplainable? Suffice it to say that for an hour, two, then three, after Azan came to the palace, father and daughter were alone in her bedchamber, and that when he finally emerged, the King could not raise his eyes, could only stare -bleakly, at the ground beneath him. _

Jaga led Azan the hedgehog to the bedchamber, then went himself - sorrow his crown and sadness his scepter - to his wife, the Queen, to tell her all. To console and be consoled.

Azan found the Princess Raineyii sitting at the window of her chamber, hair like Sun-kissed wheat streaming down, coiling through the open shutters, as if her soul were contained in the golden tresses and sought to escape. He walked into the room and she jumped up upon first sight - jumped up before her betrothed. Her father had not exaggerated, had not played a cruel joke in poor taste. Raineyii was promised to a monster.

And yet, when the creature spoke, his voice was the voice she had always imagined her husband would have; a voice of woodwinds and of dark notes, a true voice.

"Do you know me, Princess?" the voice asked.

"I do, Sir," she replied. "You saved my father and he owes you his life."

Azan nodded. "But do you know of his promise to me?" he pressed.

"He promised you the first thing to greet him on his return," Raineyii said, looking at the bluest of blue eyes, the pointy snout, and the carpet of quills. "I am yours, sir, to do with what you will."

The quills bristled and the blue eyes sparked. "Then I claim you for my bride," Azan said. "I want you to come and live with me in the forest. I want you for my Princess of Sweetness and Cherry Pie. I want to take you up and sing to you and cuddle you and hug you to bits. And I want you to love me."

A single tear crept down the Princess's sweet cheek. "Then so be it," she whispered.

"How ugly do you find me?" asked her husband-to-be.

"Not as ugly as going back on a promise," she declared, and felt the tear slide from her face to the floor.

The two were married the next day in a wedding without bells. A funeral of a wedding it was with the guests all in mourning. No words passed between the couple save the "I do's and the "I will's. After the ceremony, the banquet was presided over in silence punctuated only by the occasional sob from the Queen, or from the King, or from the Princess.

Even the music threatened its way into the room as a grave and malignant rain. Like the eyes of all gathered, it followed the couple as they left the Hall and made their way to Raineyii's bridal chamber and when they two had departed, a confetti of pity and outrage filling the room.

The fierce glow of the fire caught the highlights of the Princess's hair has she crept into bed. Red and gold light danced around her face. She lay quietly on the silk and satin of the sheets. Her husband stood by the fireplace, staring into the flames, then picked up his flute and began to play. The Princess closed her eyes and through the heavy lids, saw her miserable future unfolding.

Along the corridor in her parents' room, King and Queen lay listening to the music with breath held.

Abruptly the playing stopped and the Princess shivered. In the next moment she forced her eyes open to see a grotesque paw, half-hand, half-claw, approaching her cheek. His touch was so gentle and careful. He brushed his hand tracing the perfect shape of her features. When Raineyii shuddered, Azan withdrew his hand as if it had been burnt.

His sigh left her as he retreated to the grate to lie down. And so, the air fragile with emotions, the bridegroom and his bride settled down to sleep on their wedding night.

What awakened the Princess she could not say - nor could anyone else for that matter. A rustle, perhaps. Or perhaps it was the terror of her dreams, but when she opened her eyes she was astonished. For there, barely illuminated by the fire's farewell, was her Lord, her hedgehog, peeling off his coat of quills and laying it out like a rug on the ground to reveal that underneath his hideous exterior was a handsome face and body. Raineyii watched, dumbfounded, as her husband slipped quietly from the room and disappeared.

And lying there, half-Sweetness, half-Cherry Pie, the Princess could hardly credit what she'd seen and couldn't have, saw and shouldn't have.

Creeping to the window, Raineyii looked down and there, sure enough, was the man, all shadows, moving among his friends, the animals, in the night's quiet rain. And she found herself going to the abandoned coat of hair and quills and touching it, finding it soft and warm and remarkable.

The first rays of morning woke Raineyii from dreams of hot springs, beaches, and ice cream. There she was in her bed and by the ashes and dust in the grate laid her husband, back again, beast-like.

Had she dreamed his peeling off of his skin?

Surely she must have. But that next night, the same scene played out again: the creature standing over Raineyii as she pretended to sleep, the tender touch on her cheek, not prickly but so smooth she felt an ache when it left her, and then the magic of his transformation, the emergence of Cat beneath the hedgehog skin. And she wanted so much for this fair youth, slender in the shadows cast by the fire, wanted so much for him to come to her. But no, he slipped away. Again she crept to the window to watch him as he moved among the animals, as they nudged and nuzzled and caressed him. Again she went to the coat of quills and lay down against it, and how comfortably comfortable she found it, how luxuriously luxuriant! It made her drowsy, lying there by the fire; it made her eyelids heavy. She sighed, wrapping herself in her husband's skin, drifting off, drifting off. She knew she shouldn't, knew she mustn't, but really couldn't help herself; really couldn't stay awake another minute.

A shadow fell across her face and its dark touch woke her with a start. Standing in the doorway was her husband.

"Sir," she cried nervously. "I woke and you had gone! And left behind you coat of quills." She could not see his features or his expression for he remained cloaked in darkness.

"Which would you have as husband?" came his reply. "The Cat or the creature?"

The Princess thought on this, swallowed, considered. "I have a husband," she said as length. "And he is what he is. No more. No less." She saw the stern shape relax, soften.

"Then forgive him, Lady, if he returns to his skin," said her husband as he stepped toward the quills and assumed them, restoring the beast's silhouette. "For I am enchanted by an ancient and evil sorcerer," he continued, "and cannot leave it. But if you say nothing of this for one more night, then loyal love will break this spell forever." His blue eyes settled on her, yearning, imploring.

In that moment, her heart reached out to him. "I promise," she whispered. "I promise."

* * *

But we all know about promises, don't we? And secrets as well. What use are they when no one knows about them? When they twist and turn and tickle out stomachs and tongues. Now, you see, the Princess had a stepmother...and mothers, even stepmothers have this way of catching secret-fish and promise-fish. They eye us with eyes better served in the head of an eagle and all our rivers full of secret-fish and promise-fish are glass to them. And they fish and fish and fish until they have caught a belly full of promises and secrets.

Just so with the Queen, who that morning at sup watches a daughter skip to the table, eat when for days no appetite, and laugh when for days no laughter.

"Hungry?" she inquired, raising an eagle's eyebrow.

"Very," replied her daughter, all Sweetness, all Cherry Pie.

"Good," her mother said, smiling. "Sleep well?"

The Princess ate heartily. "Yes, thank you."

"Good," repeated the Queen, eagle eyebrow twitching, her voice casting its hook into the conversation. "Not troubled by that filthy creature?"

The Princess frowned. "No, mother," she said, defensive. "And please don't speak of him as a filthy creature. He is my Sir now. To speak ill of my Sir is to speak ill of me."

Raineyii's mother looked at her carefully, the hook dangling. "Listen, and well child," she began. "Last night your father and I went to Mumm-Ra, the ancient sorcerer who lives in the Black Pyramid and told of your tragedy. He knows of these creatures, these GrovelPig, and knows the remedy. They are the product of enchantments, you see."

"I know," the Princess Raineyii blurted out allowing the invisible hook to snag her lips.

Her mother pulled sharply on the line. "Oh? And how have you come by this knowledge?"

The Princess felt her face flush flustered. "I mean, I knew he must be," she cried, trying to wriggle away from the question. "Yes, I saw it straight away," she pretended. "He's enchanted."

The Queen reeled in her catch, triumphant. "He's told you, hasn't he?"

Her daughter denied it, all the while wriggling. "Does he take off his skin?" her mother demanded.

"No!" Raineyii insisted. "No, he doesn't! He doesn't!"

The Queen grasped her stepdaughter's hands in her own. "The only way to break the spell is to throw the skin into the fire. It he sleeps or leaves the room, cast the skin into the flames and he will be free of it."

The Princess shook her head, confused, miserable. "That's not the way!" she cried, her betrayal exposed.

The Queen settled back into her chair, the fish landed. "Sooo… he has told you… Then you know what you must do."

* * *

That night, the same story: Raineyii settling to sleep, the GrovelPig stretched out by the fire. But when, at length, he stood and shed his skin and slipped from the room, the Princess rose from the sheets.

Before she could stop herself, before the clashing voices in her head could plead sanity with her, she took up her husband's skin and threw it into the fire's greedy, devouring flames.

Oh how it burned! A thousand colors, a brilliant display of fireworks!

But then, suddenly, terribly, a cry of pain and rage curdled the air. There, below the window stood her husband, the GrovelPig, beast once more, smoke and flames consuming his skin, his head thrown up roaring out his betrayal, screaming his anguish. He threw himself to the ground trying to smother the flames, rolling and rolling over and over on the earth.

In the palace the Princess ran, ran along passages, ran down winding stairs, until she was outside, running to him, tears scalding her, gasping breath choking her. She reached him as he leapt up onto the rooster, as the animals stampeded for the gates.

"Husband!" she wept. "Please forgive! Please don't go!"

But the creature snarled and turned away from her, his quill sharp and smoking. The Princess clutched at him and was pricked terribly, falling pierced and bleeding, while the GrovelPig rode away into the night in a conflagration of smoke and dust, the air thick with clamor and alarm, the bells tolling their solemn knell: betrayal and betrayal and betrayal.

And so it was that for seven days and seven nights the Princess of Sweetness and Cherry Pie locked herself in her room and would not come out, but stayed, prostrate on the wooden floor, wallowing and sorrowing. And the days passed while she thought and thought a hole in the hearth until she knew what she must do. She went to Bengali the blacksmith and bought from him three pairs of iron shoes  
heeled with Thundranium - for he was the only blacksmith in the Kingdom strong enough of mind, body, and spirit to work the dangerous ore - and, that very same night, while all slept, the Princess slipped out of the palace and set off to walk the world in search of her husband who was half-Cat, half-hedgehog.

* * *

She walked and walked until she wore out the first pair of iron shoes, and still no one had set eyes on the creature. And so she put on the second pair of iron shoes and she continued to walk, always searching, always praying to hear the music that is both bitter and sweet, beginning in hello and ending in goodbye, but nothing, no clue, no news. Until one day, weary and wretched, she came to a stream and lay down by it. The last pair of iron shoes had worn away to nothing, and she pulled them from her poor sore feet, and saw in the water's mirror that her hair was now quiet white. And the Princess of Sweetness and Cherry Pie wept for her blonde hair and her hedgehog husband, both lost forever.

Night was falling and the mist settling in, as it does in that season in that place, three pairs of iron shoes from anywhere anybody could call nowhere.

What could she do?

Then it seemed to the Princess that she lapsed into a dream. And in that dream she saw a bent figure dressed in the tattered and worn robes of a long forgotten King walking the ground, his way lit by the swinging flare of a torch-lamp. The man approached her, catching her face in the light, but instead of greeting her, he stumbled past, calling out into the mist.

"Son!" he called, tears splashing his boots as he walked. "Azan!"

The Princess got up with a start and followed him, why she knew not, where she knew not, until they came to a cottage, an old river cottage, long abandoned, bathed in dust and swathed in cobwebs. Just as the cottage came into view, the lamp guttered, faded, and went out, and as the light disappeared so did the old King. Raineyii was at a loss.

'What now?' she wondered.

Raineyii looked about, shaking her head as if to throw off the dream, but stopped suddenly, for there sitting on the porch of the cottage, rocking in a rocking chair, a small bundle wrapped in a shawl tight in her arms, was an old woman dressed in the tattered and worn robes of a long forgotten Queen. Raineyii watched, amazed, as the woman pulled back the corners of the shawl to reveal a tiny creature, half-cub, half-hedgehog. The Princess gasped, moving to the woman, but as she reached the porch the woman disappeared and the rusted and swollen door swung open.

In went Raineyii, her heart in her mouth, but inside the cottage was empty, only dust on the tables, dust on the chairs, and dust on the shutters. She sank to the floor and fell into a deep, despairing sleep.

Something woke her. A flapping maybe. A beating of wings perhaps. Raineyii was still in the cottage; she hadn't dreamed it. The morning sun was pouring in, the dust dancing with the dust in its light. The Princess crept into the parlor in time to see a great black raven fly in and land on a table, it huge wings folding into rest. The Princess shrank back and hid from the bird.

Suddenly it shook and trembled, and transformed before her eyes into a strange creature, the posture of a man, the skin of a hedgehog, quills quivering. Twas the GrovelPig! Twas her husband! Fear and trepidation gripped Raineyii.

The GrovelPig sat at the table and with a wave of his misshapen hand, food and wine appeared. He raised his glass, unseeing, while his wife looked on. "To the health of that most beautiful Cat who could not keep her promise," he toasted, and drank down her wine.

The Princess Raineyii stepped forward. "Husband," she said, steeling her courage. "How long have you toasted one who is uglier than her broken promise?"

The creature turned round, his sorrowful voice filling with anger. "YOU? How did you find me?" he demanded, the quills spiking.

"I have walked and wandered the world to find you," his wife replied. "I have worn out the soles of three pairs of iron shoes heeled with Thundranium and my hair is no longer wheat kissed by the Sun. I have walked and I have wandered and I have come to claim you and take you up in my arms to cuddle you and hug you and love you to bits."

And with that she flung herself at his mercy, risking the spikes of his rage. She clutched him as he struggled. She clung to him as his body trembled into a transformation, ravens wings unfolding and shuttering, clung to him as the shape of a noble Lion emerged, disappeared, reappeared, all the while declaring her love and loyalty.

Raineyii would not be cast off, would not give in to the beating wings, to the poking spikes, or the violent shuddering. She held fast to her husband, until finally the shaking stopped and two stood embracing, the spell broken. And they laughed and cuddled and hugged each other to bits, pain falling from them like feathers….or like quills.

And so the Princess Raineyii who could not keep her promise won back her husband through searching without hope of finding, and in time her hair grew blonde again and there was another wedding.

And this time the feasting and drinking and dancing went on for forty days and forty nights and I myself was there to tell the best story there is to tell, a story that is bitter and sweet and begins in hello and ends in goodbye.

And for a gift, the new King and Queen - for the GrovelPig who was now a lion had reclaimed his Kingdom and united the two in a union nearly as glorious as that which he shared with his wife- gave me an iron shoe worn to nothing.

And here it is.

THE END

* * *

As WilyKat finished his tale, he smiled at the sight of the slumbering children and quietly put the storybook back into his bag.

"You always do so well with them." An angelic voice whispered from the doorway. "They love you dearly so."

The teenaged Cat recognized the voice and turned to see Cheetara, newly crowned Queen of Thundera standing next to her husband, King Lion-O. It seemed the two had returned early from the Ball.

"And they were right Kat, you do tell the "bestest" stories…even if you did make me into a hedgehog." Lion-O jested. "My Queen, I think we just found our new Royal Storyteller."

Kat could only smile all the wider for it was, is, and always will be an undisputed fact that:

_When people told themselves their past with stories, explained their present with stories, foretold the future with stories, the best place by the fire was kept for... The Storyteller…_

* * *

A/N:

1. Azan - _Panthera leo azandica_, known as the northeast Congo Lion, is found in the northeastern parts of the Congo.

2. Raineyii - _Acinonyx jubatus raineyii_: eastern Africa Cheetah

3. All credit for this adaptation goes towards The Brothers Grimm and Jim Henson Studios. WB and such can have some as well I guess.

4. Big thanks to those who have reviewd. Keep an eye out for more.


	2. The Ravens Three

DISCLAIMER: This is an adaptation of an adaptation of a story penned by the Brothers Grimm. Jim Henson, and the Brothers Grimm get all the royalties and credit for the story and RankinBass/WB get the credit for the ThunderCats. I own nothing.

* * *

The anniversary celebration marking the victory over the dark forces of Third Earth had, as usual, been an event of much splendor and joy. Throughout the land, grand parties were held and fantastic festivals were thrown. The grandest and most fantastic of all were, as usual, held in Thundera – kingdom of the Thundercats and home of King Lion-O who, with the aid of his cherished Queen, trusted General, brilliant Architect, two wily Wildcats, and a rogues gallery of allies had brilliantly led the forces of good to success.

For three days and three nights, the citizens feasted, fested, sung, danced, and told stories.

Ah the stories... The greatest storytellers across the land would journey to Thundera to tell their tales of noble heroes and vile villains, of valiant deeds and terrible betrayals.

And so it was, on the third night of the festival, WilyKat, the greatest of the greatest storytellers, took his seat by the fireplace in the Grand Hall, retrieved his storybook from his Bag of Forever, looked and smiled at all his dearest friends and family and, with a nod from his King, began his tale.

* * *

The Ravens Three

.

.

.

There was once a grand and great kingdom where all was happy and bright. Where trees and flowers grew, where songs were sung and dances were danced.

And in this kingdom a good and mighty Cat reigned and loved as King. What he gave he received tenfold times two. There were rich harvests, clean rivers, golden days, and happy children.

And his Queen… Oh she was a cheetah of grace and majesty, of incalculable wit and fancy. Her gemstone smile was passed from mouth to mouth in the country like a gift - which it was. Her smile blessed the land and what it touched grew and was healed.

Then, one bleak winter day, the Queen died. How, no one knew.

Outside the palace, the leaves, all reds and golds, fell in lament. Flowers refused to blossom. Fertile soil turned to barren dust.

Inside the palace, the King, his three sons, and his daughter wept. They wept and wept and wept so much their tears stained the stone floors. And the people filed slowly by, hour after hour, to shed their own tears for the dear Queen.

But, there was one Cat among the mourners whose eyes were dry, whose brain raced ahead to the day when the King would want to ease his loneliness. And the Strega, for a Witch she was, swept her cold gaze across the solemn faces, across the sorrow and the sadness, let it linger icily on the Princess and her brothers three, then fixed her dry, calculating eyes on the King as she schemed a simple, terrible scheme.

For you see, she lusted for power - hungered for it. She hungered for majesty over all things, for the cold ring of gold around her head. She wanted this until the want ate away her heart and soul leaving nothing but a foul, black ichor.

So she set her wicked charms to work upon the King. And as the days passed on their endless waltz, she slowly inched her way into his life as a predator would stalk its prey.

* * *

At first the distraught King didn't even see the Strega, didn't see anyone, not even his precious daughter, who was the mirror reflection of her mother. Nor did he feel the sun on his face, or the wind, or even the rain. No, the poor King just felt the cold and clammy grasp of the past. All day, all night, memories pulled at his broken heart.

But as you already know, the Strega was a charmer – an enchantress – and no petty dabbler at that. She could charm the teeth from a badger and the poison from ivy. She turned all her considerable powers on the distraught King. She would have him. It did not matter if the past tugged him one way for she patiently pulled him the other.

One rainy morning, she crept upon him as he stood hunched and broken over his wife's tomb, flowers in hand, flowers on grave. As he shivered, he felt a cloak surround him. Pulling it tight to his breast, he turned and saw the Strega standing before him, all kindness and worry. How strange he felt - strange and shaken. Because, for an instants instant, when he looked at the Strega, he thought he saw his wife's darling face.

And indeed he had for the treacherous spell-weaver had enchanted him as only an enchantress could. Her own hard, feral beauty blurred into the soothing features of the departed Queen. Brown hair turned gold, thin lips turned full and plump, dark eyes brightened. It was a spell of the oldest and darkest magics. And it worked.

"You're back," the King repeated over and over for it was all he could say.

The Strega floated to the King and pressed a now delicate finger to his lips. "Our little secret," she whispered in a voice of curare and honey.

* * *

Thus it began; the King wanting to feast forever on the Strega who slowly reeled in catch. One day they walked together, the next day he held her hand, the next day still he kissed her. Oh, wow happy he imagined he was!

He called together his four children, their eyes still red from weeping. The Not-Queen was with him and he introduced her. His eyes could not leave her as he spoke. "Dear children, I have a wondrous and wonderfully wonder to tell you. I'm going to be married again. We're going to be happy and whole once more."

The Strega smiled a smile of malice at the children. "I hope you'll think of me as your friend," she said, "and then, in time, as your mother."

"Our mother's dead," the children said in unison, huddling together.

"New mother," said the King quickly. "I think we mean as your new mother."

"That's right," said the Strega, "In time." Then she was gone, sweeping out like an ominous breeze.

Behind her, in the room, the four children stood threatened and bewildered, while their father hugged them to him, hugged and hugged, begging them to try, begging them to understand. And as they hugged, they nodded somberly, promising to try. All hugs, all family.

But, the Strega watched from outside and cursed them. The children were her rivals and her enemies. She would not share with them. She wanted it all. And she would get it all.

* * *

In short order, the Strega was married to the King after a joyless wedding. A dark cloud fell across the kingdom wherever the New Queen walked. All those in the kingdom tread warily in her presence for her wrath was shift and fierce. Yes, all those in the kingdom tread warily but none more-so than the kings heirs.

The Strega sought to sow seeds of fear in the children's lives. Railings gave way, horses bucked wild, stairs crumbled, floors rotted away. The world was now a very dangerous place. One day, a toy box was full of snakes, hissing and writhing and biting. Another day, the Princess put on a necklace that had been a favorite of her mother's and felt it tighten and tighten around her neck like invisible hands. Terror whispered its threat through the palace.

Of course the Strega herself was all honey, always honey. But, sometimes, the King caught her cold, calculating looks and worried she was also the bee and could sting. Whenever he did though, the feral features would soften and once again beguile him. Each time though, it took longer and longer to achieve. Oh what a poor King was he; torn in half. Enchanted by his new Queen, frightened for his children, what could he do?

The King had a magic ball of twine. It knew its way through all the forests. Roll it in and it would pick a path, this way and that, to where a secret Tower lay hidden, pure and perfect. Here were streams and sanctuary, an omen of peace.

The King lay awake one dark night beside his wife, watched her deathlike sleep, and decided what he must do.

* * *

The next morning, he slipped from bed, roused his dear children, and took them quickly and quietly to the forest's edge. From his cloak he produced the magic twine and set it rolling. For an hour and then another, the family followed the twines marvelous journey, saying nothing, passing glade and glen, this way and that, until they came to a clearing and saw before them the Tower.

Sorrow slipped from their shoulders like water off a duck's back, for their mother's smile and love lived here still and it warmed their very beings.

"It's perfect!" they agreed as they embraced each other, hugging and clapping backs, delighted and ecstatic.

The boys larked and larruped as if a great weight had lifted off them for it had been. And the Princess, their dearly loved sister who was the mirror reflection of their dearly loved mother, sat by the steam and dipped her toes and missed her mother who she looked so much like, which she always did when she was happy.

"This is our secret place," whispered the King gently as he sat down beside her, taking her hand in his, "Secret from the entire world and its darkness. No one can find you here."

The Princess gazed at the stream, not looking at her father. "You've brought us here because of her, haven't you?" she said, "Because of our stepmother."

Though the King protested, though he would not admit it, she was right. He had.

As they spoke, the dark Queen who the Kings children rightfully feared so, sat in her dark chamber and studied her dark spells. The children were obstacles between her and power for they were growing, growing daily like dark clouds that hung over the kingdom.

Now she would catch these clouds, and puff them clean away.

All night she brewed, all night she recited, all night she chanted her dark chants and cursed her dark curses.

* * *

When, next day, the King returned to the palace and sought her out, he found her at her spinning wheel, sending black threads of silk and satin to and fro, her tight scowl stretched into a thin smile as sharp as a bee's stinger.

"Where've you been?" she inquired, all curare and honey.

The King explained he'd taken the children on a holiday and she nodded. As he said "special holiday," she nodded more and said she understood. Oh yes, she understood everything.

'Did he like her sewing?' She wondered aloud. She was sewing shirts, she said, sewing the little children all little shirts.

Oh how the King felt terrible for he'd misjudged his new Queen. There she was at home sewing presents for his children while he was hiding them away from her.

The Strega pinched him with her curare and honey words. "You're being very mysterious," she teased. "Where are the children - our children? You claim you want me to be the mother, but what mother can tolerate not knowing where her children have gone?"

Suddenly the King felt a familiar unease creep back up his spine. "I wanted them to have a secret holiday. It makes it special."

The Strega laughed and cackled. "Secret," she said, laughing and cackling again. "Of course. But what if something should happen to you? Then what would we do? Or happen to them?" She bit into the thread with sharp teeth, snapping it. "Still, let that be an end to it. You don't want to tell me. It's your right for they're your children. I am only their stepmother." And, saying this, she spun the wheel and left him there to watch it turn and turn and turn like the enchanted guilt in his stomach.

* * *

Whatever her words, the Strega had no intention of letting that be an end to it. The next day when the King rode off to visit the children, she followed, stealthy as a bat – for she had in fact transmogrified herself into that very mammal - and watched as he rolled out his magical twin, watched its magic twists and turns, and she smiled her bee-sting smile.

That night, while the King slept an enchanted sleep, she searched for the twine, sly and silent as a fox in a hen house, rummaging and rooting, willing and wanting it to appear. And she found the twine and stole it, leaving in its place a ball of common thread.

Then, off at dawn to find the poor children, her enemies, carrying with her the magic thread as well as her magic shirts and her magic curses.

* * *

Morning found the three Princes knee deep in the stream, tickling and tackling for trout. Every now and then a cry would break the silence then a shout and a laugh as a wiggling, waggling fish would leap from the gasping hands and splash back into the water on its way.

Nearby, in the forest, the Princess wandered and walked, gathering lilies and primroses, full of joy hearing her brothers' yelps and hoots of pleasure. The children had not known such peace for a long time. Fish and flowers came in abundance and they were delighted.

They did not know at the edge of the forest, the Strega - their stepmother, had rolled out the magic ball of twine and was harrying after it.

Moments after she disappeared into the thickness of the forest, the King arrived to visit his children. He pulled out his ball of thread and threw it on the ground. There it stayed, stubborn, stock-still. He picked it up and cast it down again, but nothing. It would not move. The King was first dumbfounded, next aggravated; then slowly, the truth began to dawn on him and he felt that unease - that disquiet that spread and grew and filled him with terror. He abandoned the useless thread and began a panicked run into the heart of the forest.

The three Princes ran into the Tower, full of victory and vigor, their net bulging with fish to cook for supper. How their father would be proud of them! They carried the heaving catch into the pantry only to forget it in an instant for sitting at the table, shrouded in black, skin like the sand of Deaths desert, cold eyes gleaming, was their stepmother.

"Have you caught all these fish yourselves?" she asked, all innocence, all curare and honey, as if her presence in the Tower were the most natural thing in the entire world. "How clever!" she cackled and laughed.

The boys moved together back a step, then another and another. "How did you find us stepmother?" they asked. "And where is our father the King?"

The Strega put up her most soothing facade. She moved toward them with purpose, explaining that their father was on his way before offering to cook the fish for them. Would they like to see the presents she'd made? Special presents just for them?

And with this she produced the shirts, held them up for the children to see, their black silk sleeves fluttering like wings. "I sewed each one by hand. Aren't they nice? Try them on. Then your father can see them. Your fish, my shirts - we'll surprise him and oh how happy he shall be to see." Her voice sang singsong treachery.

The boys warily took the shirts, each with a shiver The Strega barely watched as the changed from their tunics. Instead, her eyes wandered to and fro before fixing on the window toward the forest. "And where is your dearly loved sister?" she sang. "I miss her. I miss her so."

* * *

The Princess was strolling in the forest, calm and carefree. She heard the birds singing and sung back. The trees whispered and so did she. A brook babbled and with a laugh, she babbled right back. She could not hear her father's anxious and frantic cries as he wandered lost and bewildered in the heart of the forest.

In the cottage, the three brothers tied fast their shirts, buttoned up the necks. The Strega turned to them smiling her bee-sting smile. Then she began to mutter an incantation – a curse darker than the darkest night - a low rhythmic verse, over and over, faster and faster, and louder and louder.

"The shirts will hurt, the wings will sting,

the beaks will shriek, the eyes will cry.

The shirts will hurt, the wings will sting,

the beak will shriek, the eyes will cry.

The shirts will hurt, the wings will sting,

the beaks will shriek, the eyes will cry."

And as her curse grew louder, thundering through the Tower, the terrible shirts tightened upon the young boys, pulled and tightened and stretched like skin around them, shredding and squeezing, ripping and wrenching. They looked at themselves in terror, then to the Strega in fear, her cruel voice winding round them, pulling like Deaths sure grip.

What was happening to them? Their shirts hurt, their arms felt like wings, stinging them, their eyes blinked back tears; and from their own mouths came shrieking caws.

Awful it was for the brothers, swirling in the room, blind and panicked. Out they flew, out, out, away from the Strega and her cackles of triumph.

The Princess saw her three brothers as she returned toward the Tower, her basket full of flowers and berries. The Three Ravens circled over her, cawing and cawing, terrified. She dropped her basket and ran toward the Tower's open door, then stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the Strega at the window, staring and smiling her bee-sting smile, willing the young girl to enter.

The Princess turned and fled for her life, losing shoe and shawl as the Strega pursued her - a black bat with arms outstretched, possessed. And above them flew the Ravens Three cawing and cawing, crying out warnings to their beloved sister, crying out that she must run faster and not look back.

* * *

And what of the King during all this? Where was he you wonder?

At the very instant his daughter disappeared into the forest's embrace, the King finally found his way out of its labyrinth. There was the Strega, his wife, his Queen, hurtling from the Tower, wild in her triumph, the path strewn with flowers and berries and discarded garments, feathers everywhere, anguished cries of "Father! Father!" ringing in his ears.

"What have you done?" he roared at the Strega.

"Me?" she replied, pulling up and oozing curare and honey. "I've done nothing."

But the King would have none of it. His voice was stern with rage for he knew dishonesty and treachery were afoot. "I ask you again, what have you done with my children?"

His wife was all innocence, amazed. "Are the children here?" As she spoke, her face melted into the features of the dead Queen.

The King covered his eyes with his hands, trying not to look at her.

She willed him to, willed him and willed him to, but he would not.

"My boys!" he cried with desperation. The three Ravens circled above cawing to their father. Telling him of their tragic fate in words he could not understand. "My boys! My daughter! Where are they? I heard my Princess cry out to me!"

The Strega's face relaxed, softened, returned, her smile a curved sneer of ice. She whispered, she cooed. "I think you must be unwell. Are you sickening or something? Let me see. Let me soothe you."

But the enchantment on the King was broken and he pulled her roughly to the ground. A hiss came from her throat.

She looked up at him, her cruelty plain and unmasked. "Yes, you're upset," she hissed ominously. "I'll have to think about this; about what we can do with you." Then she picked up one of the Day Astrid flowers the Princess had gathered and fixed on it.

The King stared, astounded, as the flower drooped and wilted in her grip and wound itself round her fist as a spitting, writhing Cobra. It was the last thing he ever saw before the snake leapt onto his neck and began its bitter caress.

* * *

For a day and a night the Princess ran, stumbled, and fled as swiftly as her legs would carry her until she dropped into exhaustions dead sleep, and when she woke, she saw the Three Ravens before her. Or, perhaps she dreamed it, because they spoke to her and she could understand them.

"Sister," they cawed. "Listen to us for we are your Brothers Three. The Witch-Queen, our stepmother, she did this to us. We are trapped in her curse. Help us. Please help us. To help us you must keep silent. You must not speak to a single soul for three years, three months, three weeks, and three days. Only then can the spell be broken."

Their sister listened and she believed. "Then I shall not speak," she promised solemnly. For three years, three months, three weeks, and three days I shan't speak a word.

"Please," urged the Ravens. "Please keep your promise. The shirts hurt, the wings sting, the beaks shriek, the eyes cry."

And with that the Princess nodded and placed her finger to her lips as a sign that she would not utter a word to a single soul for three years, three months, three weeks, and three days, until the wicked Witch-Queen's spell was broken.

And so the Princess made her home high in the hollow of an old dead tree and was silent while the weeks and weeks went by.

* * *

Then, one day, as fate would have it, a young Lion Prince, far from home and wandering in the forest, stumbled across a stream. He bent down into the flowing brook to quench his thirst, and as he cupped his hands in the diamond water, a delicate handkerchief of the finest lace swept past.

The Prince reached and caught it, then turned his head upstream to seek its owner.

He could see no one from where he was and, curious as only a Cat can be, he set off following the sinuous course.

Eventually, he came to a place where the stream widened into a small pond, and there, washing her clothes, was the Princess.

The Prince called out to her, waving her handkerchief. At this the Princess, startled and confused, scampered away into the thickness and vastness of the forest. The young Lion pursued her until he came to a tree into which she had disappeared. He thought she must be a nymph or a fairy or maybe even a dryad for he was certain she was a creature of enchantment. Her bright eyes had flashed at him like two suns of the most precious ore, but she would not reply as he questioned her.

At length, settling on the ground besides her tree, he unpacked some of his food and offered it to her. Famished as she was, the Princess decided at length to come down from the home in the hollow of the tree and partake. As she did, the Lion Prince set off talking again; of his past, his present, and his plans and all the while he was thinking 'What eyes! If only I could stare into those eyes forever!' And while he was thinking that, he was thinking 'What lips! If only I could kiss those lips forever!' And while he was thinking that, he was thinking a thousand other thoughts of this fey beauty.

So taken was he that the prince quite forgot what he was saying and blushed and laughed and blushed again. And the Princess smiled her first smile in months - a smile that wrapped all the way around her heart and his heart and squeezed them tight together. And the handsome young Prince came back every day for a week and she practiced her smile until it was ready for him before he arrived. But still, she would not speak and soon the Prince gave up speaking too, content to simply sit and hug on that smile.

Until one day he could not contain his thoughts and said them all aloud.

"Love," he spoke softly, and "marriage" and "always" and "ever," and the Princess came away from the tree and they kissed and as far as Heaven and earth were concerned, that was that.

But the Princess, though captivated, though thrilled, though tingling, though in Love's love, would not speak - not even a whisper.

The Prince cared not. He set her up on his steed and together they rode the long ride to his kingdom, and on the way he told her of his father, the King. And of his beloved mother who had died although none knew how.

And the Princess wanted to say "I know," she wanted to say "Mine too," but she could not, so she did not.

* * *

At length, they were there at the gates of the palace, and - proud as you please - the Prince took the arm of his beloved and led her to meet his father and his new stepmother.

King and Queen were on the balcony when the young couple arrived. The Prince embraced them then fetched his timorous sweetheart from where she lingered close by, nervous and unsure. She could barely raise her eyes as he brought her to where they stood, smiling their greetings.

The Princess curtsied shyly, then looked up and saw a kindly old King, white-bearded and eyes twinkling. Then her own eyes traveled to the Queen and her heart stopped at the exact same moment her breath caught. There before her was her stepmother the Strega.

The Princess swayed, stumbled, swooned, then fell to the ground in a dead faint.

* * *

When she came to, the Princess was in a room of blue and beauty. Her Prince sat upon the edge of an ornate bed, holding her hand. She told herself it'd all been a nightmare and that now she was merely dreaming. The King entered and smiled at her recovery. She'd been tired, he told her, overwhelmed and excited. How touching, he said, how charming, and yes, she was every bit as delightful as his son had told him.

The Princess fell back into the mound of feather-stuffed pillows, relieved and relaxing. Yes, of course it had been a nightmare. But, at that very instant the Strega appeared, carrying a tray of broth and bread and remedies. Her entrance summoned forth a sharp chill in the Princess and while she could not speak, although her heart howled, but she could stare. No, she could not say, but she could accuse her with looks.

"YOU! Killer of my father, bewitcher of my brothers," she accused, for to see the Strega, she knew her father must be dead.

But for all her smiles of welcome, the Strega was as shocked as the Princess at their reunion. Here was a thorn come back to prick at her ambitions - a thorn that could not only hinder but hurt. The Strega knew then and there what had to be done.

Strega looked at Princess, Princess looked at Strega, and their purpose hardened. Eyes spoke what lips could not: the battle had begun.

* * *

Life settled in the castle as it tends to do and all the while the Princess kept to her promise and she did not speak. And every day was a day nearer to the time when she could say all that she knew. Every day was a day nearer to the time when the Witch-Queen's heinous deeds would be repaid.

Yes, the days went by and the Princess soon married the Prince. Save for the wicked Strega, all who lived in the land… as well as the land itself approved of the union. Even the moon became milk and sugar for them! Never was a couple more suited, more in love. Their hearts blossomed and were full and not a minute passed by, it seemed, before the blessing of a cub was announced.

Every night the Prince lay with his head on his wife's round belly, a hand in her hand, listening to the child growing, kicking, and wriggling.

Finally, spring came and there he was: a son! A boy! A boy with his fathers eyes of blue and mane of red. And the young mother would have given anything, everything, to say his name, to sing to him, to whisper all the words of love a mother could say. But she couldn't, so she didn't.

Oddly enough, even the Strega seemed happy. She visited the young parents and their treasure, sweeping up the baby in her arms and billing and cooing. "He has his father's eyes," cooed the Strega. "Lovely."

Then she turned and smiled at her stepdaughter. "Let's hope he has your voice, my dear." With that, the Witch-Queen returned the infant to its mother and bid departure, leaving the Princess with an ominous farewell. "Look after him, won't you?" she said, all curare and honey. "Hug him all up, this precious little man."

And the Princess did just that. She hugged him all up. All night he lay in her arms, a warm perfect parcel.

* * *

Come next morning, the Princess woke with her son still tight in her embrace, shawl wrapped round him, covering his head. She gently pulled it back to kiss his tiny cheek, but what she found instead was the cold white ceramic of a doll's face, it smiling lips grotesquely blackish-red, its painted purple eyes staring at her.

The Princess opened her mouth to scream, then bit back the noise and let out gasps, long silent howls that racked her poor body. Desperately she pulled on the bell rope by her bed, its violent clangs crying her anguish.

The Prince came running to her, bursting into the room with Sword drawn: "What? What is it?" he demanded.

Then he saw the doll unraveling from the shawl, saw the hollow fixed smile and empty eyes.

"Where is our baby?" he asked, his heart thumping. "Darling, where is he? Where is our son?"

But the Princess didn't know, and couldn't speak, and their baby was nowhere to be found.

So it was that the Palace was scoured from top to bottom, day and night, the grounds searched, the forests combed. Nothing. No sign of the tiny child.

Intolerable. The pain of it all was intolerable. The Princess could not be comforted, was inconsolable, simply sobbed silently, covering her head with the sheets until, one night, she slipped from her bed, went to the garden, dug with her hands a small hole in the ground and, bending to the earth, screamed with all her heart into the hole. She screamed and screamed all her pain into the hole until morning. And it was better... but not much.

It was then she heard anguished cawing and, looking up to the sky, she saw her brothers, the Ravens Three, circling above her, cawing and crying and weeping for their dear sister.

* * *

While the Princess was in the garden, the Strega found the Prince sitting at the window, lost in his sadness and sorrow. She comforted him, massaging his shoulders. "Your father and I are so sad for you both," she sighed, kissing his head.

The Prince nodded sadly.

The Strega continued to rub his shoulders, her bee-sting smile ugly but unseen to the Prince. "Darling," she began, but then hesitated.

"Yes?" asked the Prince, but the Strega seemed reluctant to continue. "What?" he insisted, "Please? Say what it is."

The Strega shrugged, and then went on. "You don't think - no, this is absurd; it couldn't be - you don't think the Princess didn't...want...the little baby, perhaps, and perhaps...No, impossible."

The Price was overcome with indignation. "She loved him!" he cried, wounded.

"Of course she did," the Strega answered. "Stupid. Forget I said anything, please."

At that moment, the Princess returned, her cloak pulled about her, hood covering her wretchedness.

The Prince went to her, drawing her to him, clutching her hands. "Dearest," he whispered as the Strega looked on. "Where have you been? I've looked everywhere." Then he noticed her hands, smudged with soil and he frowned. "What have you got on your hands?" he asked. "What's this? Is this earth?"

The Princess said nothing, torn apart by her vow, bristling at the Strega's smirk.

"Perhaps she's been digging a little hole," suggested the Strega. "No? Then what have you been digging?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at the confused Prince.

But the Princess wouldn't not, could not, reply even though she had so much to say.

The Strega shared a quizzical look with the Prince, making of the silence a terrible confession. "It must pain you so much she is dumb," said the Queen carefully, "For at least she is neither blind nor deaf as well."

* * *

The universe is a peculiar thing my friends, yes a peculiar thing indeed. So peculiar in fact that exactly two years and two months and two days after the Princess took her vow of silence, another boy was born to her, this time looking more like mother than father complete with red banding around copper eyes and small dark spots dotting his golden fur. And she would not let this precious son from her sight. Not for an instant.

Night after night, while all others slept, she watched over her child, would not sleep. Would not sleep until one mourning, exhaustion finally overcame her and her eyes stopped fighting for just an instant to close and the Princess sank into fitful dreams. When she woke, she feared the child stolen and clutched the tiny bundle to her, felt its warm wriggling. Relieved, she bent to kiss his peach of a cheek, her own eyes barely open.

Suddenly a shrill, hissing squeal sounded, and staring, unbelieving, terrified, the Princess saw that in place of her son, a baby frogdog, orange eyes glazed with fear, struggled from the shawl that bound it.

Again the silent screams, the gasps, the frenzy, the search, and in the end, the despair, for neither could this second son be found.

And now, with two babies vanished, whispers were being whispered in the corridors of the palace.

"What kind of mother," the whispers asked, "who loses babies, who will not speak?"

"Cursed," they said, these whispered gossips, "Bewitched."

* * *

It was several weeks later that the Prince, confused, pitiable, went to see his stepmother, in her dark room in the darkest part of the castle. As he entered her room, he startled the Witch-Queen causing her to quickly slam shut a huge book covered with strange signs and inscriptions. Dust, cobwebs, and living darkness flew from the wicked Grimoire but the Prince, who eyes of blue were untrained to observe magic, noticed only dust and web.

The Strega smiled in greeting at him, unclipping her hair which now fell all gray and white to her shoulders. She shooed away creatures the Prince could not have named had he seen them - which he hadn't – causing them to crawl, slink, scurry, and scuttle to and fro. A pot steamed on the fire and gave off a sweet smell like incense, which made the Prince's eyes, still stinging from his tears, weep all over again.

He said nothing, but went to her, and they embraced as family would, his tears, her soothing and syrupy words of nothingness.

"I have lost two sons and I know not how. Now my beloved Princess is with child again." the Prince paused, "I could not bear..." His voice trailed away, tears consuming him.

The Strega silently simmered for the news of a new heir did not please her in the slightest. "Sh-h-h," she whispered. "When the time comes, we must watch closely. We must love your beloved very much but we must watch her closely - to ensure the safety of the child of course."

"Ware your words," the Prince growled, pulling himself from the web of the Witch-Queen. "My Princess would no sooner harm a child then she would harm me."

Ah but the Strega was a crafty one. She would not let her web be broken so easily. "Dear boy," she cooed, "I did not mean insult, simply that we must take all care that no ill befalls those…precious to us. Go now and be with your Princess and worry not. I have a feeling all will turn out as it should in time."

* * *

The time came once more and the Princess gave birth to a third son, more exquisite, delicate and perfect than the last two for he possessed the best features of both parents. And the Prince was with her from beginning to end, and together they were torn between joy and terror as they gazed into the copper and blue eyes of their little miracle.

In the palace, in the kingdom, celebrations were muted. No one dared risk a raised glass, a toast, a clap on the back. The whole world seemed to hold its breath. The Prince, sitting at her bedside, suggested to his wife that he should take his son away, somewhere secret, at least for a while. He spoke of a Tower he's heard tell of – a Tower deep within a forest that could only be found by those who knew where it was or had in their possession a ball of magical twine. He knew not of the location but he would send forth every Cat he could to search all of Third Earth for a ball of magical twine.

This echo of her husband's solution and its fatal results served only to disturb the Princess more, and she could not keep her hands from trembling. She shook her head violently, rejecting the Prince's suggestion.

At her refusal, the Prince stood up and walked up to the door, and the Princess could just see the shadowy presence of the Strega standing in the doorway, could just pick out a few of the words that passed between her husband and his malevolent stepmother.

"I told you she wouldn't agree to it," she heard the Prince say. "And I still do not. My place is by the side of my wife and son, and her place is by me."

"Of course," said the Strega, smiling her bee-sting smile. "Well, stay beside her until the morning and watch close." Then the Strega walked confidently into the bedchamber and leaned over the bed. "Little lamb," she addressed the baby, "don't you worry. Your father will attempt to watch over you."

As the Witch-Queen tried to pick up the cub, the Princess snatched him away, clutching him to her breast for dear life.

"Ah," sighed the Strega, frowning at the Prince, "Never mind. You now see my concern." She left them there in the failing light, the flame from her torch dancing and swaying down the passages to her dark room.

* * *

And so the young couple sat silent, their hearts full to bursting with worry and fright, watching their tiny cub, his fingers like moonbeams. Both parents prayed to Jaga, crouched like sentries over cradle after candle. 'I will not sleep,' they said to themselves. 'I will never close my eyes until the child is safe.'

And for hours they sat in the grimmest of resolve, lighting candle after candle, reciting their prayers, heads and hearts reeling.

But the strain - the tiredness of the birth – and a darkness of the darkest dark sent from the dark room of the Strega, washed over them. Huge waves they were; lulling and rocking the two worried parents to sleep. And for a minute, two minutes, three, they slept.

And then the Prince woke.

At his side his wife laid, eyes closed. Her blonde hair was gray, her face was gray, even her bed-robes were gray. In her arms the shawl had unraveled. The Prince began to wail, an inhumane sound, which shocked the Princess awake.

As she started, sitting bolt upright, the shawl fell away from her and smoldering ashes floated up from it, ashes everywhere, filling the room.

"What foulness has cursed us and for what reason?" cried the husband in a voice that snapped from confusion to hatred, his anger welling up in huge sobs. "Dear and precious wife please speak. Please, speak and tell what has happened to our children?"

She could not answer him if she wanted, could not had she wished to break her promise, for her own voice was lost in her private and terrible nightmare. Tears ran through the gray dust on her face as the Prince, wild, tormented, railed at the Heavens for the murder of his sons.

The King charged in, the Strega at his heels, and there they all were, surrounding the paralyzed Princess, horrified at the scene. The Strega swept up the shawl and let the ashes slide from it.

"Oh dear," she whispered in a voice heavy with shock and hidden with sin. She could barely suppress the smile that threatened her tight lips. Dear husband King, I fear I was right all along. The Princess, she is a Strega - a witch. Your poor son has been enspelled and your grandcubs murdered most foul for that is the way of this creature."

The Prince flew into a rage at her words, shouting denials at his stepmother and words of support to his wife. He begged his father to understand the accusations couldn't be true.

The King covered his face with his hands. "My poor grandcubs!" He wailed despairingly, "My poor son!"

The Witch-Queen - the real Strega - nodded, sighed, and spoke into her husband's ear. The King listened, choking own his own hot rage. "Yes," he agreed. "Yes, you are right she must be burned as a Strega."

And the Strega, hardly able to suppress her triumph, glowing with it, added but a single word: "Tomorrow."

Oh if any thought the Prince enraged before, the next moments would set them straight. It took no less than six of the Kings personal guard plus his two Generals – Panthro and Grune – to restrain the young Lion. With a heavy heart already overweighing, the King was forced to order his own son to be placed in a cell for fear of what would happen to his Queen should the Prince remain free.

And so it was ordered that three years, three months, three weeks and three days after she had taken her vow of silence, the poor innocent Princess who was the mirror reflection of her mother would be burned at the stake as a Strega.

* * *

As the bonfire was prepared, she stared from her window at the sundial in the courtyard, still far from the midday when the fire was to be lit. And she hardly cared, with all that was lost: a father, a mother, her brothers three, her babies three, and the love of a husband. She hardly cared for her own poor body. She was glad to be silent. She had nothing more to say to the cruel world.

Finally, the time came and they came for her and they took her to the pile and they tied her to the stake.

High above, the Ravens Three circled their dearest sister, cawing and crying with rage and disgust and indignation.

And as the sundial neared the line of twelve, it was the Strega herself who lit the torch and carried it toward the bundles of hay and twigs and logs, the flame bright like her triumphant smile.

'NO!' cawed the Ravens Three as they flew above. "No, we will not allow this any longer! Though the shirts hurt, the wings sting, the beaks shriek, and the eyes cry, we will not allow this. Not this."

Then they were wheeling and diving and clawing and crashing into the Strega. One pecked at her eyes, another at her tongue and the last upon her fingers. And all the while they cawed in song: "The wings sting, the shirts hurt, the beaks shriek, the eyes cry!"

In her panic, the Witch-Queen dropped the torch on herself, screaming as its fire enveloped her in a mighty flash of green and blue and yellow and red. In a second she was nothing but ashes and dust and smoke and fragments.

* * *

A silence fell on the crowd as they looked on, aghast, as the Ravens circled what remained of the exposed and undone Strega. It was a silence so profound that nothing could be heard but the flapping of their wings in the sharp sunlight.

Yes, it was silence until a strange and sudden sound shocked the crowd from their trance.

A voice was crying out, in release. A voice locked in, volcanic and sudden, erupting into the air: "My brothers, my brothers!"

It was the Princess! Free at last to speak and tell all. "My brothers! My brothers!" she cried and cried. "The truth is known and the curse is at an end. No longer shall the wings sting, the shirts hurt, the beaks shriek, or the eyes cry! You are free my brothers!"

And with that the Ravens Three fell from the sky, their wings dropping and their feathers falling, and by the time they landed, they were birds no longer. There before the loyal sister Princess were her Brothers Three.

They ran to her and pulled her from the bonfire and hugged and kissed her, and now she could not speak for crying, and the Prince, her husband, freed from his cell, likewise ran to her and wept with her, understanding nothing and caring not at that moment.

* * *

Finally, after many hugs and many tears, the Brothers Three took the Prince and Princess to the Tower in a forest that could only be found by those who either knew where to look or who possessed a ball of magical twine. And in the fields of flowers and berries, three other brothers played: a boy with a mane of red and eyes of blue, a toddler with eyes of copper banded in red and dark spots upon his golden fur, and last but certainly not least, a tiny infant with a mane of blonde peppered with little dark spots and one eye of blue and another of copper.

For, of course, as you may have guessed, it was the Strega who had stolen the children away. Each she had caught up, carried away, and cast down a deep, dark well.

But the Ravens, who watched everything as both Ravens and doting brothers do, had snatched them up and away and cared for them safe for this very moment when they might reunited with their parents.

And for every tear they wept before, Prince and Princess now shed a thousand more, clutching their children whom they had supposed lost, hearts full to breaking. They fell to their knees and praised Jaga and the Brothers Three for all was restored and good held sway.

So it was that the girl who had kept faith and had but one face for everyone was rewarded with sons and brothers and a sweetheart and a crown. And she practiced her smile until it was perfect.

* * *

Now those of you should know more

might question what has gone before.

One minute was the sand unused

when Princess shouted what she knew.

Well, for this gain of unspent time,

to her youngest brother hair of feathers remained.

He didn't mind, and nor do I,

So you, my dears, should not complain!

THE END

* * *

WilyKat finished his tale to rousing cheers and applause. The accolades always made his smile wide but as he looked into the eyes of the two cubs sitting in the laps of the King and Queen and saw the sparkle of fascination and wonderment they held, his wide smile grew as bright as the crackling fire he sat beside.

Lion-O and Cheetara saw their Storyteller's smile and shared a knowing look. With a whisper and a gentle urging, the two cubs slid from the laps of their parents and rushed WilyKat as he placed his storybook back into his bag, wrapping their arms around his waist in a tight hug.

"Thanks you for the story Uncle WilyKat." Both giggled as they snuggled their heads into his sides.

"Yeah, it was pretty good," agreed WilyKit as she approached her brother's chair to give his head a playful ruffle. He didn't miss devious wink. "But you really could use some grooming, you're starting to molt."

WilyKit bent down at the knees, smiled at her favorite cubs and held out her hand to show them it held a small pile of Ravens down. As their eyes grew large, the High Cleric blew the feathers into their faces and laughter filled the Great Hall.

For you see dear readers and listeners and spinners of tales…

_When people told themselves their past with stories, explained their present with stories, foretold the future with stories, the best place by the fire was kept for... The Storyteller…_

* * *

A/N:

Big thanks to all who read and review.

Again, I own nothing and take no credit.


	3. FearNot

Disclaimer: I don't own it. Credit and such goes to The Brothers Grimm, Jim Henson and Company, and that other thing...what's in name...oh yeah, WB.

A few quick nods; SakuBoss keep on rocking. Anzu Fan my fellow Grimm lover, my Muses who continue to keep me in line.

And Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy New Year, and every other seasons well wishing to all.

* * *

Now that we got that said, I hope you all enjoy the story.

Feel free to drop a review or PM.

* * *

Sitting in his large, plush chair by the fireplace, penning away at yet another tale of whimsical fantasy, WilyKat's highly attuned ears picked up the near inaudible sounds of diminutive feet trying their best to silently move across the floor and the slight rustle of clothing. With a sniff of the air, he immediately caught two distinct and well recognized scents – his favorite duo, the royal heirs.

Or as he liked to call them: "Mischief" and "Trouble."

WilyKat, far more experienced than the two children he loved so dearly, waited until the twin pairs of footfalls were nearly upon him before springing up and out of his chair with an exaggerated cry of "Boogie-boogie-boogie-boogie" to snatch up both of the barely-to-his-knee cubs in a warm hug.

"Thought you could get me this time did you?" He questioned over their giggles and squeals of delight before peppering their cherubic faces with kisses.

"Uncle WilyKat, how come we can't never ever scare you?" "Are you like our mommy an daddy an afraid of nuffin?" asked his favorite troublemakers in between fits of laughter.

That got quite a rise out of the teenage Thundercat, as he set the two ThunderCubs down and settled back into his chair. "You just don't know what scares me. Same with your mommy and daddy, there are things that scare them, they just don't show it."

"Mommy and daddy get scared?" the twins questioned in disbelief.

"We all do."WilyKat nodded. "All of us are frightened of something. Bats, blood, buttons, snakes, slugs, shadows, cobwebs, mice, heights, caterpillars, cellars, fire, water, mummies, mutants, Mongors, lightning, rain, wind - any of these and more can bring about that cold prickly sweat, the heart stopping, the shivering, and the shuddering."

"I hate spiders." Mischief proclaimed with a shiver.

"I hate cabbages." Trouble added with a shudder.

"Well, you are in luck then, for I have a remedy sure to cure even the worst case of the shivers or the shudders and I'll share it with you." WilyKat announced, retrieving his famous storybook to the twin cubs delight.

"I'll tell you the tale of a boy who set forth to learn what fear was."

* * *

FearNot

.

.

.

Now he was as rare a boy as rare could be. The second son of the second cousin of my second aunt's second niece, who'd died and left her husband-a banker-with two sons, one good, and the other, good for nothing. And this latter boy was known as FearNot – though that was not his name, and he played the fiddle and folk found him a fine fool of a fellow.

Picture him: A shock of red hair, a fixed grin, a light heart, and eye's so blue, they surely had to be the union of Sky and Ocean. He had no trade and no wish for one. Nothing suited him better than to sit with his fiddle and scrape out tunes, idling away the afternoons with a song and a smile.

Most of all, he liked to find a spot underneath the window of his sweetheart-a merchant's daughter, a beauty, a darling - and serenade her, coaxing a shy wave from her slender hand, a lovely laugh from her cupid lips.

Oh yes, this was best fun, until her father appeared, all flush-cheeked and furious, flinging down flowerpots at the fiddling FearNot.

"Be off!" he'd bellow. "Good-for-nothing!" And he'd be right on that count, for if FearNot wasn't valued for his forever smile or his dancing fiddle, then was he indeed of little worth to the wide world.

* * *

One day, soaked through from a rainy spell of sweet reels under his sweetheart's window, a smile as long as tomorrow, FearNot skipped home to find his father and his brother hard at work, their fingers flying across ledger pages.

The banker looked up, all ink and dye, his face dark with rage. "What time do you call this?" he demanded, scowling at his son.

FearNot was confused. "I don't know, father," he replied, smiling, "What time do you call it?"

His father sighed a sigh and rolled his eyes, "Jaga give me patience!" he exclaimed then thought better of his temper. "Did you at least fetch the notary stamps?"

"Notary stamps?" FearNot didn't know what his father was talking about.

"The notary stamps I sent you out to fetch this morning!" exploded the Tailor.

FearNot beamed in recollection. "Do you know, father," he said genially, "I completely forgot those stampsf while I stood and played under my sweetheart's window. She's a lovely one; a cheetah she is."

Exasperation forced his father's eyebrows up to his scalp. He turned to his other son and ordered him to get the stamps.

But the elder son, as normal as FearNot was odd, was frightened of the journey. The walk home would take him through the forest after dark, and he was fearful of shadows. There were trolls there, and ogres, and, if talk about town was correct, dragons.

"Surely it can wait till morning?" He whined.

At the mention of the word "dragon," FearNot piped up. "Let me go," he said. "I don't mind shadows and I've never seen a troll, or an ogre, or a dragon."

The banker nodded wearily, one son fearful, the other fearless. "Be off with you then."

FearNot grinned and gamboled for the door.

"What are you going for?" tested his father.

FearNot couldn't quite remember. "Don't tell me," he said, scratching his head, "To see dragons?"

His father's head went crimson as his son's hair.

FearNot tried again, "To find ogres?"

His father erupted, his voice a volcanic volcano. "NOTARY STAMPS!" he raged. "YOU GO TO GET NOTARY STAMPS!"

* * *

FearNot's smile stretched until it seemed it might meet at the back of his head. "Notary stamps, notary stamps, notary stamps," he repeated, setting off into the night, saying the word over and over in case he forgot again.

"Notary stamps," memorized FearNot as he skipped his way through the village and threaded his way through the forest; eyes skinned for a troll or ogre or dragon or other curiosity, but alas, he saw none.

As it were, FearNot made his way to the town, remembered the notary stamps, and set off on the journey home, a dozens upon dozens upon dozens of them stuffed tight and to the brim in a big leather purse. As he passed the square, he beamed his twice-round-the-head smile at a gaggle of youths who loafed and lingered on a lookout for mischief.

A mischief of youths, one might say.

They stared their violent stare, laconic eyes following FearNot as he headed for the forest. One greasy head bent to the next and muttered. The next head guffawed and bent to the third, passing the jape. Then, all three smirked and slipped from their posts and into the woods.

* * *

The evening was growing darker. Moans, howls and hoots, and the sudden creak of branches lent a sinister music to FearNot's journey. None of this affected him in the slightest - quite the reverse actually. He had his fingers crossed for a surprise. He kept to the shadows, hoping to stumble on a snoozing nasty of one sort or another. Oh yes, that would be a good story for his brother!

But he was out of luck, it seemed, as he neared the edge of the forest. Then, suddenly, a huge shaped reared in front of him.

"GGGGGRRRR!" it roared, looming monstrously above him.

"Hello!" greeted FearNot, excited. "What are you; a troll?"

The monster bellowed back, swaying ominously. "I am a Wurdle!" it bellowed, "Only twice as bad."

"Never mind," FearNot sympathized.

The Wurdle lurched forward. "I want your bag of stamps," it demanded in a new voice.

FearNot apologized and explained they were for his dad.

The Wurdle growled. "Give them to me or I'll reduce you!"

FearNot asked the monster to explain.

"I'll mutton you!" it threatened in yet another voice. "I'll give you a right flummox!"

FearNot was not familiar with any of these terms, but decided they didn't sound very nice. "That doesn't sound very nice," he said.

"Give me the bag!" the monster stormed, all voices sounding in a terrible chorus.

FearNot frowned and swung the bag of notes. "Very well," he said, and dealt the Wurdle a resounding blow across the chops, sending it flying.

As the monster fell, it seemed to come apart, like a troupe of collapsing acrobats, and before FearNot could say "Fol-de-rol," the mischief of youths from the square had run off bruised and battered into the woods, the butt of their own joke.

FearNot hardly noticed the revelation. He was too busy trying to rescue a stamp or two from the scattered bag. After an hour he'd managed to retrieve eleven.

* * *

Back went the boy to his dad's house, full of tales of a Wurdle, only twice as bad, and sorry about the stamps, and did you know a Wurdle has three voices, quite remarkable, eh?

And his father, reduced, muttoned, and flummoxed by this Wurdle of his own flesh, could stomach it no longer and set his son outside, handed him fifty shillings in a purse, and told him to go off, for pity's sake, and learn something!

FearNot considered this strange mission and nodded. He'd always wanted to learn how to shudder, he told his father. The knack of it had eluded him.

Yes, he declared, he would set forth to learn what fear was. Did Dad think that was a good idea?

"Anything!" cried the Tailor, his eyes rolling to the heavens, "Anything!"

FearNot grinned happily. "That's what I'll do," he announced, and straight off he went without a bag or bun or second thought.

FearNot's father stood and watched him leave, shaking his head as his son waltzed off, for he was a rare boy and no mistake. Off he went, rolling into the world without anything to guide him but a bag of shillings, a fiddle, and a fool's errand.

As many of us have done the same.

* * *

And so the boy set forth to learn was fear was, and he looked for it in many a dark place, under many an upturned stone and up a downturned tree; oh yes, he walked and walked until at length he came - as at length you must - to a crossroads. And there he met a Wolo.

Not an ordinary Wolo, mark you, but a ragtag-and-bobtail of a fellow - a Tinker, to be sure, with a leprechaun's face and an undertaker's coat and belt rattling with the oddest objects, pots, pans, potions, relics, and tools of the most mysterious trades.

Seeing FearNot approaching, this Mr. Jingle Jangle beamed a Wolo's beam, dusted down his breaches causing an explosion of dust, and sneezed his way toward him.

"Good day, young Cat!" he announced with a bucktoothed flourish. "Now here's a lucky meeting."

FearNot agreed and said so.

One eyebrow on the Tinker's face arched knowingly. "Ah, I can see by the gleam in your eye you have a sweetheart," he observed with a cackle.

"I do, sir," acknowledged our boy, intrigued.

"What's her name?" asked the Tinker.

FearNot didn't know, and he was sorry for that.

The Tinker shrugged. "Ah, what's a name, I always say. Mine's Tobin and I don't mind at all."

"Most call me FearNot," said FearNot, "Though that isn't really my name."

Mr. Tobin nodded a sage nod. "And there you are, as my poor mother would say. Do you have a mother?"

FearNot shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't."

"Ah well, we all had one at one time and that's the main thing," the Tinker told FearNot, and patted him on the back in consolation.

Then, he began to produce all manner of trinkets from his carpet bag. "Tell me," he bade his new young friend, "is your sweetheart dark or fair?"

"Fair," FearNot told him, picturing blonde hair. "Like a horizon of sunshine and moonbeams."

Mr. Tobin seemed delighted. "Like a horizon of sunshine and moonbeams!" he exclaimed, hopping from one foot to the other.

"Oh Happy Day, a Happy Day for you young fellow, for I have in my bag a scarf made of sunshine and moonbeams," and after a moment of rummaging, out it came – a marvelous rainbow of colors - to be dangled it in front of our boy. "Here," he said, waving the scarf under FearNot's nose. "Take it with my blessings, and may you learn a name with it."

FearNot felt its silky softness. "Thank you sir," he said, over and over. "Thank you!"

The Tinker adopted the tone of a generous soul. "Because I can see you're a good fellow," he began, "I'm only going to ask from you what I paid myself; a double perstial."

FearNot had no idea how much even a single perstial might amount to. "How much is that?" he inquired.

"How much do you have?" The Tinker questioned eagerly.

"Fifty shillings," FearNot told him, for that was how much he had.

Mr. Tobin had an attack of the coughing. When he recovered, he seemed quite unimpressed by the figure.

"Nothing like that much," he said, waving away his hand. "Oh no, barely half," he muttered, "Less than two-thirds." His eyebrow seemed to twist into a question mark.

FearNot, for his part, was thinking past this transaction. "I'd like the scarf," he told his new friend, "because I have set forth to learn things, and to learn a name is, I suppose, something. But I'll give you all I have if you could but teach me what fear is."

Now both the Tinker's eyebrows quizzed and quivered. One curled into the figure 5, and another to an O.

"You will give me fifty shillings if I can frighten you?" He asked FearNot.

FearNot nodded earnestly with a hearty reply of "Gladly!"

"Hmm, let me see says the blind man," chuckled Mr. Tobin seemingly deep in thought, chin tucked into his chest.

FearNot waited and waited until the Tinker laughed an uproarious laughter and snapped his fingers in the air.

"Close your eyes." He instructed FearNot who was more than happy to oblige.

Mr. Tobin grasped the youth's shoulders and gave him a good potato sack shake while screaming a giant's scream in FearNot's ear till he could scream no longer.

"Is something the matter?" asked FearNot in a concerned voice, eyes still tightly shut.

"No, no," Mr. Tobin shook his head and thought of another tactic, "Just give me a moment but keep those eyes of yours shut."

Again, FearNot waited.

This time, the Tinker pulled a spoon from his bag and set its cold metal against the boy's throat. "What do you think I have at your throat?" he asked in a menacing voice.

"I don't know sir," FearNot shrugged, "A knife perhaps?"

"That's right," hissed the Tinker. "And a sharp one at that; can split a hair clean in two."

FearNot, eyes closed, seemed impressed. "How marvelous!" he exclaimed with a thrice-wrapped smile.

"It can slice a throat without touching the sides," continued Mr. Tobin.

"That's a good knife, then," declared FearNot, patiently waiting for something to happen.

"It certainly is," agreed Mr. Tobin. "And will slice yours, young Car, unless you give me your bag of shillings," and with this he let the spoon press into FearNot's proffered flesh.

"I can't do that!" laughed FearNot opening his eyes of bluest blue, thumping Mr. Tobin heartily upon the back, and sending him flying to the ground, pots and pans and bits and bones scattering. "For I must learn what fear is and I'm not frightened of you, Mr. Tobin, you're a friend!"

The Tinker scrambled to his feet, gathering up his possessions. "No, no that's right," he said ruefully. "We're friends as sure as friends are. I'm sure we are." He rubbed his rump with a grimace. "Let me take you down the lane and then I think I can arrange a small case of the shudders for you."

And, hobbling and clanking, he hurried off, head buzzing, FearNot following.

"Where are we going?" inquired the young man.

The Tinker pointed to down the traveler's path. "To a pond by a hedge by a field by a mill by a town; and in that pond is a fearful sight. So fearful," he said gravely, "think what fearful is, and add ten."

FearNot was delighted. "And shall I shudder?" he wanted to know, his voice brimming with excitement.

"No question," replied the Tinker and hurried on, adding under his breath, "If you survive..."

* * *

So off they set, a most fanciful peregrination, until they came at last to a pond by a hedge by a field by a mill by a town. And as they arrived with day ending, they saw folk rushing from the mill, stilled dusted with flour, and these souls would not stop to swap words, shouting instead as they hurried off, "Be clear before dark falls!" "Beware the pond!" And other such unwelcomes.

FearNot was somewhat bewildered by these exhortations until Mr. Tobin pointed out that they were encouraging signs of the shuddering to come. It was the pond, he explained, with its terrible secret that would do the trick for FearNot, and that was why the squeamish had fled. Mr. Tobin himself seemed anxious not to loiter, looking fretful at the sky as the sun dropped, bringing with it the pink and gray cloths of evening.

"Plunge into the pond," he told the boy in a curiously contradictory gait, one foot moving toward the bank, the other restless to depart. "Fear will swim up to greet you."

"Splendid," declared his charge, busy removing his boots. "Will you be joining me?"

By now, Mr. Tobin was extremely nervous. "No thanks," he muttered uncomfortably. "I'll retire and find us beds for the night. You must sleep after a good fright. Good luck." With that, he slipped the purse of shillings from FearNot's possession then hurried off, sending puffs of encouragement over his shoulder as he scampered away.

* * *

All alone, FearNot paddled, his feet stirring the green waters, waiting for something frightful happen...

Now this pretty pond was not all welcome-cool and water lilies. Deep in its green deep was a Terrible Thing, and the Terrible Thing was disturbed by splashes. It peered up through the green and saw a pair of feet. And had FearNot been down in the depths, he would have heard the sound of stirrings and an indignant rumbling.

But he wasn't, so he didn't. Instead, he sat dangling his feet in the pond, waiting to shudder, wondering how, when all of a sudden and who would believe it, the water began to gather and froth and swirl-as if lifting up a lacy petticoat-and blow me if a ring of sad beauties didn't appear, set a-dancing, eyes closed and melancholy. These were the Sisters of the Deep and their dance was a welcome to drowning.

And FearNot looked on, enchanted by their loveliness as they swam in intricate patterns an inch below the surface, beguiling, entrancing, all grace and invitation.

But instead of joining them, he did what he always did when the mood took him. He pulled out his fiddle and began to play a reel that was sweet and sour and happy and sad, a tune that began at hello and ended in goodbye.

And, hearing his music, the beauties opened their liquid eyes and moved to its coaxing lilt.

So it went on, FearNot fiddling, dancers dancing, until suddenly the pool churned and agitated and from the gushing green the monster emerged, a thing of slime and seaweed, half-lizard, half-lobster, all tendrils and tentacles, eyes rolling on waving stalks.

Now why did the village folk avoid this pretty scene? Why did men tremble at nightfall as the moon gleamed its silver upon the pool?

Because my dearios, my darlings, these were the Sisters of the Deep, lost daughters in the service of the Terrible Thing, water in their eyes, water in their veins. They have but two tasks; to drown men and to drown women.

"Come in, come in," they seemed to say, "Come in and sip our bitter beer. Come in and meet our master."

And from the muck and dampness, their master reared up at FearNot, all dripping and dreadful. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded in a voice choked with tiny fish.

FearNot shrugged. "I don't think so," he said politely. "You're not a Wurdle." He thought a bit. "Some sort of Terrible Thing?"

The monster's eyes rotated on their stalks. "Exactly," he sputtered, "I am Slythe and these are my pretties. They tempt young ones like you and I drown them."

Before FearNot could ask why, the monster continued, hypnotized by the fiddle and its sweet song.

"Sell me your bird," he said dreamily. "Its song is so…beautiful."

"I can't do that," FearNot tried to explain. "It's not a bird, it's an instrument with strings, and I make the song with my bow."

But Slythe, the Terrible Thing, would not believe him. He splashed out of the water, a thing of stem and stalk and scale, huge and ugly.

Others would have fled for their lives; FearNot merely stared, eyes wide with curiosity, enjoying this adventure. Slythe, the Terrible Thing, approached him, flailing, but it was not the boy he wanted. No, the creature desired the magic bird.

His webbed hand scraped the fiddle, and the strings screeched and shrieked. "Horrible!" mourned the monster, disappointed.

"You must learn to play it," said FearNot sympathetically, and demonstrated the fiddle's true voice.

Tears leaked from the monster's eyes. "Your bird!" he cried. "Where does its song come from?"

"Faraway," FearNot told him, "The Crystal Kingdom."

The monster's eyes swiveled the possible directions. "Which way is this Kingdom of Crystal?" he asked.

FearNot looked to the north and east, to where the hills stretched out in a long procession. "That way I suppose," he said, pointing to the hills, "Many lefts and many rights."

The monster looked to the north and east with a look of yearning. "Make your bird sing some more and then I'll go there," he sputtered, "To this Crystal Kingdom."

And so FearNot played some more until, after many a note, Slythe, the Terrible Thing - tears raining from him - left his daughters and his green pool and his endless drowning; slithering away in search of the Crystal Kingdom and the bird that sings.

For all I know, he lives there still.

* * *

The next morning, the mischievous Tobin had a rude shock. There he was, fifty golden shillings in his pocket and doing a fine trade in relics and rosaries-for this was a village of many funerals-when along came FearNot in a fine rage, indignant to the theft of his shillings and if not disgruntled, certainly not gruntled. Oh no, not gruntled in any way at all.

He stormed through the eager crowd of customers, and set about the miserable Tinker, berating and bewailing him, and would have made tomato of his nose and cauliflower of his ear had he not revealed the sum of his exploits and the fate of the Terrible Thing.

Throughout his rant and rail, the crowd caught on, and the next thing our FearNot knew, they'd hoisted our boy up and carried away, aloft through the streets, circled ten times around the pond, then back for a carnival that did not stop for a week.

Later, after not one feast but twenty, seventy-eight gifts, four offers of marriage, and much playing of the fiddle, the whole village collapsed into bed and slept soundly, freed from the terror of the Terrible Thing.

By then, Mr. Tobin, self-appointed manager of heroes, and historian of FearNot's exploits, had noted details of trolls and ogres and dragons and terrors and untold, unsolved mysteries.

* * *

Thus commissioned, the two companions set off, cheers still ringing in their ears, and it wasn't until late the following day, heads still muddled with cider, that FearNot remembered to clap the Tinker's ears, retrieve his fifty shillings, and ask him where they were heading next.

Mr. Tobin, possessed of a map of many colors, turned it round and round in study. His lip, pendulous at the best of times, positively drooped after FearNot's thrashing.

"Well," he said sulkily, "I have heard the route to a fine terror, but I must have reward."

FearNot reminded him of the promise of the fifty shillings once he was properly frightened.

Mr. Tobin looked peevish. "You promise me so much, but give me only your fist, which I like not!" On he went, muttering and mumbling, bemoaning his lot. "I try, I try," he muttered, "And after one little misunderstanding, I am thrashed for my pains."

And proceeded they did, FearNot pulling their donkey loaded up with the seventy-eight gifts, Mr. Tobin ahead, nose in the map, cussing and cursing, his belt of pots, pans, and paraphernalia jingling and jangling with each step he took.

"Compare us," he continued. "You are blessed with a great courage. I am cursed with a little cunning. I cheat for trifles, you can move mountains! Is that fair, I ask you?"

Now FearNot felt pity for the Tinker and held out the bag of shillings. But the Tinker would not take it.

"No, no," he insisted moodily. "I'll struggle on for nothing, I'll guide you," and, pointing to the horizon, he picked out a spiky silhouette perched on a peak. "We go to yonder castle where none have survived a night inside. That sounds an impossible task and will therefore suit you."

FearNot put a hand to his brow and squinted at the castle. "So I will learn to shudder at last?" he asked hopefully.

The Tinker shrugged. "We can but hope," he said.

Now the castle they approached was a graveyard of hopes. There it stood on the horizon, a place brooding. Enchanted, the King driven out, the rooms abandoned, only fools sought shelter there for they had reached a troubled land where bad held sway.

But fools there were, as always, tempted by the fabled store of fabulous treasure.

* * *

Suddenly, the ground crunched underfoot and, looking down, Mr. Tobin let cry a fearful shriek, for at his boot was a skull, and next to it another, and next to that another, and so on, stretching out before them, a path of grim bones, all that were left of their predecessors.

Mr. Tobin was terrified. "Bones," he whispered.

FearNot pressed on and looked down into the wide mouth of the moat. Dark liquid filled it. FearNot investigated. "Blood," he announced.

Before the Tinker had time to suggest they might try a smaller shudder but a few miles distant, an ungodly moan issued from the castle, and the drawbridge swung open with a mighty crash.

FearNot was delighted. "Wait here," he told his partner, and rummaged through the gifts. "I should take something with me."

Mr. Tobin was paralyzed with fear. "Take a sword," he suggested. "Take two."

But FearNot ignored his advice, and decided, instead, on a small grinding wheel. "This will be enough," he declared, "Or not, as the case may be. And it leaves you seventy-seven of my gifts, should I never return."

The Tinker was down in the mouth. "Do not leave them here," he pleaded. "You know how it is with me. I will be forced to steal them and desert you."

FearNot smiled a nice smile, and took his friend's arm. "Have a little courage, Mr. Tobin," he said, and with that he turned and hurried into the dark bowels of the castle. A second hideous cry greeted his entranced.

Mr. Tobin was beside himself with dread. "A little courage Mr. Tobin," he reminded himself, and stood shivering by the drawbridge.

* * *

The hall of the castle was vast and dark. FearNot found gnarled candles whose wax had long since wept onto the floor, chairs lonely with dust, a long table heavy with secrets, and everywhere a silence with eyes that watched his every move, with ears that heard his every step.

The only sounds were tiny creaks, furtive scurries, and the wind keening through the shattered windows. Oh yes, in the cold hearth of the fireplace, fear sat, invisible, and waited...

Even brave men could not stay in this place, but FearNot wandered about with a hop and a skip, dipping into dust, eager-beaver for some action.

And it came. For suddenly, without warning, a gust billowed from the chimney and after it, with a bellow, appeared a monkian - or, more precisely, half a monkian, for there was nothing at all below his waist.

No one seemed more surprised at this than the monkian himself. "Here now," he said, astonished, "There's only half of me!"

And, ignoring FearNot, he levered himself on his hands to peer anxiously up from whence he had come. "Where's the rest of me?" he demanded in a voice booming with anger.

FearNot had never seen a more ugly sight than this half-monkian with his severed legs. His head seemed to have nothing to do with his neck, his arms less to do with his body. For the entire world, he looked as if he had been hastily thrown together from bits of other people. And indeed he had.

While FearNot looked on, astonished, the half-monkian dragged his miserable trunk around the floor, roaring with rage, until once more the chimney belched and this time it issued forth a pair of legs, jerking and twitching.

The half-monkian let out a satisfied growl, scraped his way back to the hearth, and in a second had hauled himself up onto these limbs. Thus attached and apparently satisfied, he took a few cautious steps, legs leading, body catching up in a quadrille of discord before shaking his head and muttering, thumping at his new legs in disgust.

"These aren't my legs!" he announced accusingly to the bewildered FearNot. "These are definitely not my legs!"

FearNot shrugged, feeling unable to comment on what belonged to this man and what didn't. Instead, he offered his best smile and introduced himself.

The half-monkian eyed him curiously. "How about a game?" he asked, licking his lips at the prospect.

"Why not?" replied FearNot. "I have all night."

This response brought such a guffaw from the monkian it threatened to detach his heaving belly from his bottom half.

"He has all night!" he roared, most amused. Then he stomped over to a chest and yanked it open to reveal a collection of bones.

"Can you play…Skittles?" he inquired gleefully, and set about arranging them in a clump at the end of the hall, thrusting the great table aside with a single flick of his wrist.

"I never have before but I can try." FearNot replied honestly.

"Never have but you'll try? Good!" he declared, eyes gleaming. "Now what size legs are those?" he demanded, pointing a ferocious finger at FearNot's lower half.

FearNot didn't know, and said so.

The half-monkian frowned and stumped closer for a thorough investigation. "No gout?" he queried. FearNot shook his head. "Corns? Blisters? Foot rot?" continued his interrogator.

"No," said FearNot, wondering where this line of questioning might lead.

"Good, good," mumbled the half-monkian. "I could do with those legs, these are too short by a half."

And with that he dipped back into the chest and produced a skull, then staggered to the opposite end of the hall where he took aim at the skittles.

"You'd better win, precious!" he cried, announcing the stakes. "Else you'll find yourself half the Cat you were!"

At this, he hurled the skull at the bones, sending eight of them flying into the air. "Eight!" he cried, triumphantly punching the air. "Eight! Not bad on borrowed legs."

Folding at the waist, he reset the skittles, delivering the skull with such force to FearNot that he was knocked sideways, collapsing into a heap.

"Careful," warned the half-monkian. "Don't want them pegs damaged!"

FearNot picked himself up and carried the skull over to the grinding wheel. "If you won't mind, sir," he said, "but your ball is not round enough for me," and so saying he brought bone to blade in an excruciating grind.

In a few seconds the skull was perfectly round, and FearNot, full of intent, aimed at the skittles. His throw was powerful and true, the ball hurtling toward the bones with a smooth and deadly flourish.

Up jumped the bones, every one of them, dancing in the air scattering across the hall and down came the half-monkian, the skull dislodging his upper portion from his lower.

"Aaargh!" he howled in a fit of rage. "You cheated!"

"No sir," replied FearNot. "I simply swapped a little courage for a little cunning!"

But the half-monkian was inconsolable, for even as FearNot spoke, the legs pulled away from the body and lurched off toward the fireplace. "Now look at me." He moaned, taking chase after his legs.

"All very well my friend, but it doesn't help me with the shuddering." FearNot expressed dejectedly.

* * *

Outside, Mr. Tobin, temptation nibbling at his resolve, picked through the lucky dip of presents. He found a beautiful goblet studded with jewels and held it up for the moon's approval. Then a silver plate and a diamond ring.

"Lovely," he murmured, greed goading, "All lovely."

The wind howled around him, blood gushed into the moat, screams curled from the castle. He shivered.

'Run,' said the little demon in his head, 'run, run, run.'

* * *

Inside, FearNot - for want of a fright - settled down for the night. He found a bed piled thick with velvet eiderdowns, and slipped underneath them. His legs nudged something cold. Pulling back the plump covers, he met with a dreadful sight.

Lying there, eyes closed, no pulse, no breath, was his friend and companion, Mr. Tobin.

"Oh mister," cried FearNot, sad in his heart, "is it all up with you?"

The Tinker did not move. Tenderly, FearNot touched his forehead.

"So cold," he sorrowed. "You were my first and only friend. My friend and now so cold."

Grief and dismay welled up in FearNot as he carried the Tinker into the dark hall and built up a fire in the grate. As the meager flames dipped and danced, he held the limp body over them, wrapped in the velvet cover, and tried to warm him back to life.

Just as sorrow was teasing a tear from the corners of his eyes, FearNot felt the slightest tremble from deep inside the velvet. He unraveled the covers, excitement mounting, and pulled back the cloth.

Staring at him with an evil leer was the face of the half-monkian!

* * *

With a mighty roar the creature was upon him, thick fingers squeezing at his throat, a foul breath choking him. They fought, rolling over and over on the damp stone of the hall, growl and grimace, might and marrow.

Now it was FearNot forcing back his opponent, now it was the Half-Man cruel and crushing, threatening to tear the boy limb from limb. So it went on for an hour, this fearful wrestle, until at last, exhausted, with a final fling, FearNot got the better of his adversary and dashed his head on the stone.

There was a terrible crack as the half-monkian fell back and broke into a thousand pieces, dust and fragments flying into the air. One moment he was there, huge and murderous, the next he had disappeared in a swirl of sulphurous gas, back to the depths from whence he had come.

* * *

FearNot lay on the flagstones, heart pounding, and strength spent. The fire had long died and the hall was pitched into blackness'.

"FearNot?" came a small voice from the dark, and again, "FearNot?"

The giddy, swaying light of a torch flickered into the hall, casting a long shadow over FearNot. Standing before him, trembling, was Mr. Tobin, his tiny, anxious voice echoing against the stone. "FearNot!" it pleaded, desperate.

FearNot sprang up, no longer deceived by this hall of horror and its mischief. "Come nearer, demon," he cried, "and I will cut off your head, and then there will be three parts to marry!"

"What?" came the timid reply.

FearNot was not fooled. "I know it is not you," he said, ready for the fray.

"It is me!" insisted the man before him, grey eyes blinking.

"Dead again, are you?" said FearNot, tensing.

Mr. Tobin looked very offended. "No!" he said, and took a step toward our boy.

FearNot pulled out his knife, gleaming in the torch's flare, and swung it threateningly across the Tinker's path.

The little man leapt back aghast. "Please!" he cried. "I'm terrified! I came with my little courage and it's quite used up."

FearNot faltered. "How many gifts did I leave with you?" he quizzed.

The Tinker frowned guiltily. "Well, I could only count seventy-seven to begin with and I ate two...well, two and half...but there's still plenty."

But FearNot was not convinced. "What's the name of my true love?" he asked, ready to lunge.

Now the man looked very vexed. "How can I know if you don't?" he complained.

And FearNot knew it really was the Tinker and was overjoyed. "Then it is you!"

"Of course it's me!" said Mr. Tobin, most aggrieved.

Delight danced on FearNot's face. "And you came in to find me?"

"And small thanks I get," the Tinker moaned. "It's my lot. I try to break the mold and be decent and I get a knife thrust at me."

His friend was undeterred. "Come here," said FearNot, "and hug me,"

"No," sulked the Tinker then hugged him just the same.

Oh yes, hug him he did, and there the two friends stayed until morning while FearNot told his tale and the Tinker told his, and pleased as punch they both were with themselves.

* * *

Then they searched the castle from top to toe, and behind the farthest door of the highest floor they found a room, and in that room was gold, such goldness they might have thrown it out the window for a week and still be swamped.

And they shared it half and half and a bit for luck, and never have two men danced more, nor merrier. And from a distance you would have seen the castle shake off its gray drab and sunbathe.

And the next day, the boon companions, weighed down with treasure, set off on their way and found themselves not far from FearNot's village.

A thousand thoughts haunted our hero as he walked. Why hadn't he learned to shudder? What could he tell his father? Where else could he look? He queried and questioned his friend Mr. Tobin all the way home.

"Are there not sufficient riches that you must be frightened as well?" posed the Tinker, pointing a thumb to their haul of gold.

For FearNot, the answer was simple, no.

Such conundrums consumed him as they rounded the ridge that led down to his long-left home, and how could it not be so, for is it not the point of adventures that you learn much but not the things you thought of?

At last they reached the gate, footsore and found. FearNot pulled back the latch and beckoned his friend, but Mr. Tobin shook his head.

"We must say good-bye, then," he said sadly.

"But you must meet my family," protested FearNot.

"No, no," the Tinker told him. "Families never like me."

"Of course they will, you are my friend, you must come in."

"As my dear old mother used to say, "leave them when they want you to stay." No, thank you lad."

And with that he reached inside his raggedy tunic and pulled out the leather purse of shillings.

"What's this for?" asked FearNot.

"You must return it to your dad," explained Mr. Tobin, "for you have not learned what fear is."

FearNot took the purse with a thank you and a good-bye, smiled, then pulled the little Wolo to him and gave him a huge hug.

And from one side you might have seen a tear in the eye of Sky and Ocean, and from the other side, a tear in the Tinker's.

* * *

Then he was off, Mr. Tobin, his donkey loaded with half the bounty of their exploits. FearNot watched him go, a jingle and a jangle, a jumble of mischief and twinkle, watched him struggle up the path and then turn on the horizon and wave, a wave that ran all the way back down the path to touch FearNot's heart.

"Goodbye, my friend," he whispered, and walked inside.

There he found things much as before, father and brother busy at the ledgers, ink flying back and forth. And you can imagine the look he got, for when last seen what an empty head he'd been, the boy could not remember notary stamps.

But how the sour turned sweet when he showed them both the gold, how the weary turned to wonder. And while brother scooped sovereign after sovereign from the bulging sack, while dad dug into the deeps of diamonds, FearNot told them of his journey.

"The way was long," he said, "And the paths were strange. And still I have not learned to shudder."

But they could not hear for glitter, they did not care for coins. No, FearNot was a hero and that was that. They took him up and whirled him round and delightedly danced with him.

* * *

It wasn't until sometime later, feasting finished and all forgiven, that FearNot remembered his sweetheart. He ran to her house, his scarf made from sunshine and moonbeams tucked into his shirt, his heart singing. Outside her window, he did as he had always done, and took out his fiddle. The sweet bird from the Crystal Kingdom flew up to the heavens and the shudders flew open.

But no darling true love came to the window. Instead, it was her father with a grim expression.

"Come quick!" he called down. "And hurry!"

So bidden, FearNot rushed up the stairs. The merchant waited for him.

"Where've you been?" he cried, his voice heavy with sorrow. "She swooned when she heard you'd gone, and nothing will revive her."

Even as he said these things, he ushered FearNot into his sweetheart's room. There she lay on a bed of lace, her gentle face pale, her breathing deep and distant.

FearNot's heart sank. He lay the silk scarf across her neck while love skipped one beat and then another. He spoke, but the words came out in a tiny whisper. "I don't know her name," he said in a voice of despair, stroking and stroking her lovely hair. "I have loved her as the flower loves the sun since the first moment I saw her, yet I do not know her name."

"Acinonia," said her father mournfully. "Her name is Acinonia."

FearNot mouthed the name over and over, "Acinonia, Acinonia," held her sweet hand in his. He trembled with the fear she might never open her eyes, might never smile that darling smile.

But even as the little shudder shook him, her eyelids fluttered, came open, closed, open, closed, and open.

And she looked at her sweetheart, home at last, and smiled, and FearNot forgot himself and her father and kissed her cupid lips and shivered all over.

"Oh! Will you look at that!" said Acinonia's father as she sat up in her bed.

But FearNot could look at nothing, for don't you see? Don't you follow? FearNot had shivered! FearNot had shuddered!

"Acinonia! Acinonia! You've done it!" he cried, and kissed her again and kissed her dad and kissed the walls and kissed the door and jumped and jumped for joy.

"Done what Leander?" asked his sweetheart dreamily.

"You've taught me!" he said, brimming over with happiness, not even pausing to ponder how and when his beloved had learned his name that none had spoken for years. "I've been so far, so long, and all it needed was the thought of losing you to teach me what fear was."

And, going to the window, he flung back the shutters, bathing the room in sunlight, and told the whole world of his triumph.

"I SHUDDERED!" he told the Sky. "I SHUDDERED!" he told the Ocean.

* * *

So the boy who set forth to learn what fear was learned it at home. And he married his sweetheart, with her name and his, and he never left again.

Though far off, Mr. Tobin heard FearNot's shouts and the wedding bells, for he told me all this, from start to finish, a long time ago when I was very young and didn't know the half of it.

THE END

* * *

Finishing his story to the cheers and compliments of an audience he'd never grow tired of, WilyKat shifted to pick up his magic bag he always kept close at hand. Oddly, it was not where he had left it.

Confused, the teen began to bend and twist himself in his search for his precious bag.

"Wassa matter Uncle WilyKat?" Trouble asked a bit too innocently.

"I can't seem to find my bag…" The Thundercat explained, not noticing the twin cubs tone or where their eyes were fixed.

"You look like you getting scared." Mischief played along.

"No, no, just confused." WilyKat clarified. "I know I set it here next to me..."

"WillllyyyyKkkaaatttt," a sudden, ghostly voice moaned as the Bard's bag floated by in midair.

"MEOW!" In the blink of an eye, WilyKat has vanished from his seat.

"WilyKay?" Called the invisible voice though now lacking the haunting moan. "Um, WilyKat, where'd you go?"

Tygra, the Thunderian Ambassador to Third Earth, and Steward of Thundera – the established city of the Thundercats upon said planet, materialized before the eyes of his Godcubs.

"WilyKat?" he called once again.

"Look up." Called the tigers wife, Pumyra, the pairs own newborn cub gently held in her arms. With her were the King and Queen, both trying, and failing to hold back their laughter.

Tygra and the Cubs all looked up to see the teen using all four sets of claws to clutch tightly to a ceiling rafter with a look of terror upon his face.

"NOT FUNNY TYGRA!" WilyKat shouted from on high.

Only WilyKat seemed to be of that opinion as the Hall exploded with jovial laughter and cheer.

For you see dear readers, listeners and spinners of tales, while there are always exceptions for special occasions…

_'When people told themselves their past with stories, explained their present with stories, foretold the future with stories, the best place by the fire was kept for... The Storyteller…'_

* * *

A/N: As always thank you for reading and reviewing.

Big thanks to the Brothers Grimm and Jim Henson, this was all you guys; all I did was transcibe and bring it into a new medium. Credit goes to you...and WB.

* * *

Leander - Greek - Lion-Man

Acinonia - Acinonyx jubatus - Cheetah


End file.
